When I was a child, my mother said, young lady, youth. Youth, what a good word, light, or rich.
Youth is nothing in my eyes, but when I am old, I will understand what it is like to miss. Maybe, now, I can understand.
Missing is a faint love, a nostalgic feeling, an ideal kite and the wings of dreams; Youth is a green mango, a faint grass, a rich flower, or something else … I don't know, but I only know one thing, that is to cherish. Cherish the youth now, cherish the beauty now, and cherish everything now. Come back and relive it when you are old. It's gone. What are they talking about? They wrote a poem, which is wonderful and beautiful. ...
Those were the days before, and that was love made up of youth.
We were full of childishness at that time, but we were happy.
isn't it?
We went swimming and traveling side by side arm in arm.
Youth is a song, a sad and desolate song.
But when it is ripe, savor it.
It expresses not sadness, but
warmth
Youth is the music of love, a beating note.
This is a dream, flying wings.
This is my mother's work. Maybe she is not old, but she is still older and experienced more than me, right? She told me that she missed everything about her and wanted to go back. Go back in time? One cannot put back the clock. Although there are many unexpected things in the world, I don't know if we can meet. I'm not sure. Maybe your fate is good enough.
Mother asked me, what color is youth in my eyes? I thought about it, and youth is blue. There is no other meaning, just feeling, only by feeling. People say that a woman's sixth sense is correct, don't they? Am I counting a little woman? Blue is the color flying in the sky, faint and a little sad, but the feeling of tranquility conquers everything. Blue, the color of the raging sea, is deep, deep, not Wen Ya. Blue, the color of flowers and orchids, gently swaying, love floating in the wind. ...
Youth, is that right?
Youth tiptoes with blue poems. ...
Staring at the willow shadow on the shore, I once again entered the memory of youth. It used to be a world of green grass and flowers, but now it is covered with a layer of silver frost. Because for a 30-year-old, playing the string of youth may be a bit out of date.
But, after all, I have been stationed in this life station. Didn't you see those crooked footprints on the road? Listen to that simple flute tune, isn't it the inner call? What a persistent pursuit, what a naive fantasy, no falsehood and no sadness. And those vain and vanity are the footprints of my youth. This is the road I walked when I was defeated by the storm of the times. Yes, the youth I still remember is a painful era, an era in which fanatical passion and shocking slogans are intertwined. I have also studied hard at the cold window, always trying to get rid of the gifts given to our generation by the ten-year disaster-ignorant cloudy and childish dust and shallow mud. However, who can get rid of the air pollution of the times?
Thankfully, I am awake, and I understand life, which is the alternate weaving of sadness and happiness, and the constant translocation of courage and cowardice.
No failure and frustration, no pain and hesitation. Then how can I taste the pride of success and the joy of victory? How can we get rid of childish and shallow footprints? So I look forward, as if I saw a harvest season coming to us. . . . .
Youth is a beautiful dream.
But one day I will wake up from my dream.
Youth is a small river
But it will dry up one day.
Youth is a rainbow.
But it will disappear one day.
Youth is a blooming flower.
But one day it will fall.
Youth is the fine sand in your hands.
Unconsciously, it has leaked out.
Youth is a meteor in the sky.
Although it was beautiful, it passed quickly.
Youth is the fragrance left by happiness.
Everything I want to cherish is gone.