In the silence of midnight, singing the rhythm of old songs, staring at the faint lead color of the moon, my thoughts are empty. Think about it. A cup of light green tea, accompanied by silver moon's light hair, savors the yearning rhyme of the Millennium streamer.

The light at night is soft, and the feeling of missing is heavy. Listening to the flowing past wandering in the quiet night sky, my heart is sour and my eyes are full of tears. Moonlight quietly kissed the stagnant water and embraced the floating tea in the cup. At this moment, it was gently filled and passed through the softest corner of my heart. Behind every ray of sunshine, there were faint marks. Perhaps it is quiet green tea, but people have that deep attachment in tea tasting.

The wind is silent, the heart is silent, but it is so clear that I can see the melancholy flower hidden in my heart. There are also core petals, crystal-clear sadness, and blooming thoughts. So light, so deep, it hurts the mood of scented tea. And this ash

The yearning for color, like sunshine, quietly passes through every gap and irrepressibly occupies every corner.

My heart can't be as still as water, but like a slight rain, it moistens my heart bit by bit. Tea doesn't quench your thirst, but the drier you feel. Finally, I understand that your shadow is ink. When I turned my head silently, the ink had turned into a flower, like a painting left by my hand in the moonlight at night. In this bleak and confused starry night, black and white are clear and picturesque. Seeing my pain, I groaned silently.

Tea is light, but love is strong. As the days passed, the moonlight gradually dispersed. Missing at night, like a running dream, is like chasing the moon of Chang 'e, lingering, that endless sadness.

Staring at the sublimation shadow of the cup for a long time, my heart bursts with sadness. My eyes are moist and my tears are hesitating. A marigold is on the windowsill, listening to the moonlight shining on it. The melodious melody is full of silver light and your gentle smiling face in the distance.

Take a sip of tea and taste your heart. Missing is like a flower under the moon, blooming with expectation and wandering in Sri Lanka for many years.

In autumn, kapok will float with the fallen flowers, red and sad. You dare not touch that distant wound, like a beautiful epiphyllum. Easy to approach, but afraid of getting closer. Familiarity is easy, and I am afraid that familiarity will become a permanent strangeness. There is a yearning that is pure, sad in missing and melting in sadness. Those diaries that used to dance for you have become blurred. In the sober season, there is only a confused and shallow moonlight sea, where you are tired of thinking.

Missing is like tea, whether it is faint or soaked. In the middle or deepening of a day's baptism, sometimes the eternal imagination in tea is sad. Tea should be light and cold, but is that true yearning and eternal warmth?