Flower

Your Lonely Bloom, no one cheers, your full face smile, bright in the cold winter. If I am indifferent and don’t write down a paragraph, I will stand in front of you, see you and smell you just for you. Chinese rose flower, the same name as your village girl, the same dress as your village girl, and the same busyness as your village girl. Who do you bloom? For whom is your beauty gorgeous? How much do you gain from your hard work all the year round? Words are not philanthropic, and people who write words are philanthropic. In spring, the poems wrapped around the branches of plum blossom bend the branches. In summer, a pool of Lotus and rain is the tears of sentimental literati. In autumn, maple leaves all over the ground are pieces of paper left by poets, the cold in winter forced people who were dancing and writing into the warm room. They would not calm down and wrote the snow scene in a window pale on the pale paper. But no one wrote about you. Today, it is also accidental that I write about you, and my words today are pale, because my heart is vulgar. You can settle down wherever you go. You are ordinary, no one pays attention to you, no one cheers for you, but you are not angry. You take root in this small courtyard, and you are next to me, blooming beautiful and swaying again and again, but I have too many desires. I am busy every day and have no spare time to stop to see you, there is no mind to talk with you, but your smiling face is still full of happiness. You live a simple, indifferent and happy life without any burden, and all you look at are happy and gorgeous. Today, when I sit with you, look at you, and meet with my eyes, my mind is also pure. My exhaustion and holes are all put down in front of you, closed up, and I am with a grateful heart, look at you, listen to you, if you like, I want to say: You are my only flower. In this way, I can call your name, dance and dance, sleep quietly with your fragrance of flowers. Because, you told me quietly: live simply. I can’t say more words or write more words. If you like, I will show Su dalu’s simple life to you. Like (prose editor: drops of ink become wounds) the snow in spring

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