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Posted by marlll
on October 9, 2008, 03:44 AM.
Tonight I hut in the village sitting alone, reading at a Candle, a tobacco and liquor on close to becoming one of the world body.
I saw upon under the olive trees in the San Mao called the woman. I was also a poem street tree leaves God for no reason have to burn the prize.
Iraqis, who would have thought that your heart space than any star or the moon should be warm.
Occasionally, so that a Qingyun, are gradually drifting away, like a fan.
In the window of my heart and have been over the moon ship Yang Zhao Yingying a deep sense of warmth. ......
At this time, your heart is what fan?
6,
Is the home next month. Waming village deep sleep a few sentences can be awakened.
I think the voices of half of the village in full bloom in this small river, the frog has become a cluster of Drum homesickness fragile nerves.
Moonlight as silk, the mother with a fine needle, the traction of the time line, to mend the poor memory.
When the wind when the morning breeze, my mother still nicknames Huan Zhao time, so that the memory footprint of a clear step by step.
Iraqi people, you drink wine with bubbles into the moonlight hometown of tea, so long in the soul of the Central Committee, the Department of scented tea shy love; so far from the homeland of the pupil of the eye, clear our memory.
At this point, you push a foreign land in the window lattice detail what the stars? Moonlight beam, which is your thoughts? Flashing moment which is sent to your comfort? |
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