Sunlight, as full as olive oil, rushes left and right in the fantasy-shaped houses in New York City, shines with golden light on the artists' canvases that are messed up in time and space, and dances among the magicians' surreal sun, moon and stars.
To show off his strength, he was distorted and imitated in the overlapping vision of countless people.
The unruly blood is flowing freely, and the grotesque shapes in the square in the central area are vivid. The coffee brewed in the dessert shop is rich and mellow, and the mercenaries are bustling in a hurry.
The copper bells buzzed on the spiers of the land of the two-headed dragon, and the goddess of the earth drove the beast chariot into the distance. The color of the seafood stew was bright and shiny, and the madness in the prison was like the abyss of purgatory.
The Gothic auditorium echoes the aristocratic carriages, the bard's praise lingers in the air, the blood of Grylls inspires the city of Newk, and the melody of flamenco is light and melodious.
People were coming and going at the hotel on the corner, and the boss was chewing raw ham and stirring Castile soup. The white low houses on both sides of the stone road were simple and unpretentious, the rosemary in the hanging basket was colorful, and the church at the T-intersection stood still.
, the blue-crowned tit that occasionally passes by is rushing towards the Cisse High Court.
An old man sat quietly by the window, the scarlet sangria in the cup was cold, the old iron stove crackled, and the scent of pomegranate floated from the warm honey water.
The pocket watch full of patterns made three crisp sounds, and the old man opened the courtyard door and walked on the gravel road. The children in ragged clothes were lively and cheerful, and the bronze bull outside the city lord's mansion was majestic.
The old man walked slowly out of the city, gradually moving away from this noisy main border city. Behind him, the El Tajo Canyon was surrounded by wind and water, and there were still crowds of people beside the statues of the gods.
A bard once wrote in his handbook that if someone wants to go to the Principality of Xisai for a honeymoon or elope, the Golden Halberd Plain is the most suitable place, with romantic scenery everywhere you look.
But if your honeymoon or elopement here fails, it’s best to go to High Court, where everyone can find a new love and go their separate ways.
The breeze plays with butterflies and solitary wild geese sing, the summer flowers wither and the carnations are fragrant; the olive weeping branches are swaying in the blue waves, looking for honey beside the stone bridge on the top of the cloud.
The nightshade flowers are in bloom, and the vast swaths of snow-white decorate the wind and moon in a holy and unusual way, and the faint fragrance spreads in the air.
The endless flowers are blooming vigorously, as if they are going to use up all their energy to bloom into their final appearance. When the breeze blows, the boundless sea of flowers begins to dance, just as the poet Garcia Lorca said,
Each grain of this sweet-smelling fruit is a star, and each layer is a hazy sunset.
The old man walked through the crisscrossing fields, bypassed the canyons surrounded by streams, and finally stood on the top of the mountain shrouded in morning mist.
Looking around, the boundless nightshade garden is like an ocean, overwhelming and raging with roaring waves. On the last day of this stormy moon, the white snow in the sky showed off, blinding the eyes of travelers and covering the eyes of young eagles.<
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Even under the pines and cypresses in the mountains and beside the quiet pond, this white color is not to be outdone. It is dotted in the green grass and enchanting beside the flowing stream.
They bloom energetically, compete with beautiful women, and compete with young girls. They show their charm and tenacious life at all times.
A simple low tent, a campfire stove with an iron pot, some oak barrels filled with honey, and dozens of old and rusty beehives, this is where the old man is, and this is where he is.
Paradise these years.
As an older generation beekeeper, he has always adhered to the traditional method of raising bees. Just like the strong ancient Xise accent, although it has long been outdated, it is still like a guitar tune in the key of G, soft and long.
When travelers passing by stopped to take a look, he would generously take out a few small honey-tasting tubes and put a little of each for them to taste.
But if someone asks about the price, the old man usually sets his sights in the direction of Newk City. Because there is a shop run by his son there, and everything here is just for him to watch his late wife.
The sun was shining brightly, and the old man stood up and walked into the forest, standing still in front of an old tomb. The breeze carried the faint scent of nightshade flowers and blew past him. The rusty locks of memories slowly twisted again, and strands of honey seeped out.
Iron box.
Thirty years ago, he and his wife settled in this border city, and the two used the gold and silver they had accumulated over the years to purchase the current store.
The life of Zhe Feng Mu Yu finally ended its "sweet journey" with a short life like a bee. In the following days, time will be refined into thick honey.
But the good times did not last long. His wife died of illness in the second year after the child was born. It was from then on that the old man developed the habit of standing in front of the tombstone and talking to himself every day.
The setting sun sheds countless light spots through the canopy of the trees, like golden glass fragments, spread on the quiet tree-lined paths, forming the most beautiful scenery.
The old man raised his hand and rubbed the stone tablet, muttering something about his reluctance to leave his wife. The feeling of despair and heart-rending coldness was so strong. His heart, which was once filled with memories, was also filled with memories.
Slowly disappearing over time.
The lover of the bow is the hand, the lover of the rosin is the string, the lover of the lover is like honey, but his lover lies in the grave.
With those beautiful or sad emotions, the old man could never break free from the shackles of his heart, let alone get out of this grove full of longing.
Long and tangled thoughts linger in my heart, and memories that turn yellow like the sunset ferment over the years. The waiting that has not changed for thousands of years still remains in the dusk, and the hexagonal honeycomb still hangs in the evening breeze.
He could not let go of the loss of his lover, and the whole world seemed to be upside down. Happiness turned into a small whisper in the distance, like a broken paper kite flowing into the torrent.
The old man looked around, fearing that he would miss his wife's ghost. His nose twitched slightly, trying to distinguish the smell in his memory.
Unknown wild flowers were swaying in the wind, and a few bees stopped among the flower stamens. The old man squatted under the tree, as if this was the only place in the world where no one would disturb him.
Time seems to have become denser and thicker, like memories that have been stagnant for many years, like a lump in the throat. The footsteps of the years are steady and powerful, changing the scenery of the four seasons, changing the vegetation, mountains and rivers.
The drizzle falls, dispersing the heat of the wind and the moon. The silvery and jade-like lake surface is sparkling, connected with the dark blue sky, and connected end to end with the bright moon, which is beautiful.
But the longing that is growing secretly in my heart is always rippling. It is like a thick syrup of blood and honey sliding over the tip of the tongue, sweet and slightly cold.
The damp night wind woke the old man up. After sighing, he turned around and returned to the city. But looking around, the road home ahead became very long.
The lonely figure under the moonlight exudes the warmth of the past, imprinted in the deepest part of memory. The gray and bleak boulder bridge connects reality and dreams, measuring the courage of the sudden rain and wind.
That heavy promise is simple and profound, the jar of honey that has never been eaten is still as beautiful as amber. The remaining life is numbered, and the longing that penetrates into the bone marrow is still pure and clear.
Borrow a wisp of elegant autumn breeze, wear a leisurely tulle, drink a cup of tea under the moonlight, listen to a soul-breaking song, let the flowers fall, be gentle and elegant, and the pure jade is flawless.
The old man stood in front of the shop, looking at the familiar plaque. The sweetness of conversation kissed the tip of his nose. He smiled and walked past, and some neglected memories suddenly came to his mind.