Trail

The bloody canyang dragged a long figure and gradually escaped away from the distant Camel Bell. The green grass overflowed the cobblestone paved exquisite and delicate path. The towering trees on the roadside covered the sky over the ancient road, in this empty valley, the ancient road is like a fallen giant lying quietly in thorns and weeds. Have you ever remembered that the dust is flying, the merchants are like clouds, and the horseshoe is sonorous, bearing the weight again and again? At this time, you can only listen to the whispers of the insects silently, the crisp bird is singing. Stepping on the ancient road gently, I was afraid that the sound of steps woke up the sleeping history. Prosperity drifted away like smoke and clouds. Once there was fire and heat on the desolate land. Blood and tears were intertwined. With the pace of the times, it slowly fell off and fled to a long distance, leaving a sad and vigorous song, singing from the mountain wind over and over again till now. Sitting in the ancient road, listening with breath, every trace gently tells its glorious history, as if returning to yesterday when the male horse howled, the sound of wind, rain, South-to-North tune and tired footsteps intertwined, resounding through the empty valley, it warms the land. Now there is a trace of green on the silent ancient road. The dust has already become the past, but my heart cannot walk out of the flying dust, because my heart belongs to the old time and the winding and extending ancient road. Through the misty eyes, we can see through the floating magic like mist, which aroused a kind of touch in our heart. The historical footprints erase the sadness of the past and leave wisps of fragrance over the ancient road. The thousand-year-old caravans are as lonely as the shadow. In front of them is the endless ancient road, hardship and hardship. What gives them strength to move forward continuously and slowly, shouting desolate and tragic, resounding through the sky! An era creates a kind of spirit, and a kind of spirit breeds an ideal. Now this ancient road is like a collection of ancient poems, and the flowing gold of canyang is like meteors, falling into the eternal belief. The West Wind of the ancient road, the sunset, where is the heartbroken person? Praise on May 23th, 2013 (prose editor: Ink drops into wounds) the snow in spring

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