(3) My youth is in the dark sky in winter. There are no beautiful birds flying over a lonely stagnant water and no fish swimming happily. I flew into the sky and looked down at the flowers projected on the running water and found them in the wind of years. Childhood is a complete mirror, while youth is a mottled leaf. Whose thoughts and dreams are covered by white clouds? Who is the cuckoo who cries night and day in spring except the lost passion? (4) Bright March, bright March, the flower shadow shakes the green leaves. I opened the window, and the sun shone in and drove away the shadows. I hear the sound of loneliness and fracture, the silky broken youth that birds pass by. Isn't it my sadness that shines on the water? Forget all the wine I have drunk, forget the snow on the lost mountain road, and melt in this beautiful March. Let's listen to the whispers of flowers and dreams together. 2. You are my youth. You came gently, with a little naughty. You are so naive and hypocritical. You came quietly, with a little dream. You are so cute. You are faint, fresh is your temperament, and simplicity is your wealth. I wanted to hold you in my arms, but you cried. Therefore, I will no longer desecrate your purity. Just because you are my youth. in these quiet days, I always look out of the window silently. The bare tree is a single old man who spent the winter. The frozen wound is still slowly dripping with blood. Lonely branches are bare and scattered all over the floor under the cold wind. A few birds are jumping under the eaves and looking here from time to time, but they are never far from their warm homes. The sun is always pale in the dignified sky. Sighing monotonously over and over again, shaking his face over and over again, leaving nothing behind. < 3 > There are still seven or eight stars scattered on the hay that has not snowed for a long time. A bird lay quietly in the grass, as if it had been dead for a long time, but it could not find its deep imprint. The clear river is full of leaves, large and small, creating many traps in the wide valley and stepping on them carefully. Fallen leaves find their way or find time with a particularly gentle voice. The shell left by the old hunter suddenly realized that this steel plate was originally made of some beautiful petals. Is it to pray for the song of the wind again for the yellow land that has been dry for ten thousand years? Is it for the end of that song to cross your wandering soul again? Is it to let the soul surpass a banana that was originally far away from the jungle a few years ago? Is it for that banana? Are you continuing this wandering front in an illusory world? Day after day, it was soaked in rain and exhausted by the hot sun, but day after day, it was blurred by dusty footprints. How many times did the tears rise? Wang Yang's environment is getting worse and worse, and it is impossible to bump into a brand-new human past life. The bitter and salty life still surrounds you. Youth-The flowers and plants of Shen Qing's youth make me tired, but I don't regret it. The rain and snow in the four seasons make me ecstatic. Light wind and green dreams, light morning sleep, light clouds and light tears, light years. With the joy of wandering, I will never come back. No one hinted at the dry taste of homesickness when I was young. I want to snuggle up to every golden sunset, and every drop of transparent dew washes away my sadness. I met her in full bloom in the distant spring, like a beautiful fairy tale filled with dazzling brilliance. Allow me, song for you. I can't sleep every night. Allow me to cry for you. I can fly freely in tears. The sky in my dream is very big, and I am lying on your eyelashes. There were many days in my dream, but I began to want to go home. On that blue hillside, I will bury all my songs and wait for them to become human legends one day. The bloom of youth makes me tired but I don't regret it. The rain and snow in the four seasons make me ecstatic but haggard. Tangled clouds, tangled tears, tangled mornings, wandering winds, wandering dreams, wandering years. Staring at the willow shadow on the shore, I once again walked into 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. . . . .