Fengde neighborhood

Selected works of American literature 1:

Fengde neighborhood

Gorgeous rainbow

Hanging leisurely in the blue sky

Catkin flying, leaves flying.

This is the street where the wind lives.

The wind has natural seasonal changes.

A touch of broken sunset

Leaning on the withered vine leaves

A few ruins, a few broken walls

This is the street where the wind lives.

There are merciless natural and man-made disasters in the wind.

Loud folk songs

Hum freely from their mouths.

Black tile and white wall, blue brick path

This is the street where the wind lives.

There are ordinary people in the wind.

Beautiful melody

Faintly bounced off her hand.

Turn bleak, turn beautiful, turn sad.

This is the street where the wind lives (despise)

There are emotional stories in Tears in the Wind.

The wind lives in the street where we live.

Selected Works of American Literature II:

Fengde neighborhood

In life, some details are so small that we can hardly see them. However, the pleasure that is often available at your fingertips is obtained from these small and dull lives. A person's life, though short, is like a meteor disappearing in the night sky. We need brothers and sisters no matter what age. We need some brothers and sisters to spend some special moments with us, because in our life, we often have a lot of troubles and depression.

I like listening to the street where the wind lives. This is a tune played by Kiko and Masao Sakamoto, a woman who started practicing classical music at the age of 3. In the overtone of erhu, she combines the depth of piano with the exquisiteness peculiar to women, or is silent, or gives a clear, warm and calm slight response.

The whole song, dynamic and static, soft and low, is wrong, just like two lovers, who love each other and miss each other, but they are one Jiangnan and one Saibei. And Sakamoto Masao's erhu also has an elegant and soothing temperament, which is a wisp of acacia, a tenderness and a touch of sadness. It is also a kind of beauty that directly touches people's hearts. I think only those who can understand this song are the people who are destined to meet, know each other, fall in love and be moved by the story.

Street in the Wind is a dialogue between piano and erhu. Piano and erhu are both melancholy. They are tied together, as if in heart-to-heart. The piano and erhu are high and low, which set each other off. One is talking, the other is listening, and there is a faint sadness and pity. A sudden tone change, a short pause. This is a mixture of all pain and helplessness, sobriety and resentment. Thoughts wander, heartbreak, infinite disappointment. This is the charm of music. The piano and erhu are tragically intertwined and cannot overlap. Life that is close at hand and far away from the horizon is interpreted as sad and vivid. According to the melody, the sound of erhu in the song should be a dance between erhu and piano. Piano is like erhu, just like a gentleman and a lady. Erhu's complaint is sad, and piano listening is a little obsessed, a little pity and a little helpless. Like a pair of lovers who know each other but can't be together. It's just a chance encounter that doomed a lifetime. But even if you look back a million times, you can't dream of holding hands for a lifetime. The sadness of years and the helplessness of life are slowly flowing in the melancholy piano sound. From then on, the listener's past was wet, and his thoughts were in a state of confusion because of his endless feelings. He didn't want to wake up, the mountains and rivers were heavy and misty. He can only look at each other from a distance through the dust of the years, affectionate, melancholy and unforgettable.

The wind, blowing gently; Clouds, passing gently. A thousand words turn into a wisp of smoke, and what rises is the sadness of missing. The sad melody of erhu tells, and the piano is played beautifully and silently. I caught a glimpse of the frozen time and space in Qian Qian, but behind the beauty we met, there were sadness, loneliness, sadness, twists and turns, entanglement, affection ... gentle dancing, and mutual love floating in the air. The street where the wind lived met unexpectedly, and in an instant, the past and the past came and went, falling into a state of loss. In this impetuous city, it is rare to find a piece of peace of mind. When the wind awakens the memory and returns to the quiet and narrow street, there are bluestones recording the story of being buried. You have been to my world. ...

Selected Works of American Literature III: (Good morning)

On the street where the wind lives

Wherever I go, I always get up early.

It's autumn, and I'm walking alone in the quiet alley of 1. A few clusters of lonely roses hold the morning glow, which is a little cold and I can't bear to leave. Isn't it? I'm too emotional. I always feel dull pain when I see some residual bubbles from my trip to Qiu Lai in spring. Well, there is no need to pick up the past worries scattered all over the place, just walk quietly, just walk.

Suddenly, there was a watery laugh at the corner of the alley. Like a misty wind, it is intermittent and clearly audible. Take a closer look, it is a young couple. The boy looks like a brave little poplar tree in light-colored outdoor shoes, jeans and a T-shirt. She leaned down gently and whispered in the girl's ear, while the girl stood in the depths of the morning fog and burst into sweet laughter. Soft halo around two people, it is a sweet feeling.

At the moment of passing by, the boy squatted down and picked up the girl and ran forward, like a frightened elk. The girl lay happily on him, her thick and slender legs and long hair hanging straight down were all more delicate and beautiful because of her inner joy.

I can't help laughing. It is natural for him to meet her and hold her in the palm of his hand when he is in his youth. He always feels that he can't be too good to her, and seems to carry all his happiness behind her back. "I remember the first sight of Xiaoping, and the two centers of gravity were Luo Yi." When we meet for the first time, our initial heart is always so fresh and beautiful, like crape myrtle blooming in this morning.

Just ... I don't know how many times I met for the first time, and my initial heart, in the following years, I unconsciously had a taste of half honey and half bitter. We might as well slow down, slow down again, wait for each other, and wait for our initial heart.

In an article, Ji Xianlin tells the story of an old German woman who married a China. After living in China for half a century, she can't speak ten Chinese sentences, and she is not used to China's diet. After her husband died, she still didn't want to go back to Germany to reunite with her children. Instead, I drag my weak body every day and wait for the flowers and trees that my husband likes in a small garden. In the dead of night, she didn't.

Buddha said, "Don't forget your initiative." Along the way, we often betray our original intention and unconsciously lose many perfect things. I don't know if there is a place or a person hidden in everyone's heart. It takes you a lifetime to leave, but no matter how far you go or how long you leave, you can take it away, but that's your eyes and your feet. In one journey after another, you can blend in with new scenery and meet new people, but you can't let go of that place and that person.

Selected works of American literature 4:

The street where the wind lives is fragrant.

Push open the door of 1 1 month and embrace the bleak autumn wind, as if you are about to feel the chill of winter. Branches and leaves fall and dance, gently falling into sight, like a butterfly, helplessly passing away in the autumn wind. Returning migratory birds are chanting love poems written for Jiangnan in the sky. In the street, the approaching dusk and crowded sounds sound lonely. Memories are dyed red, like wild chrysanthemums quietly blooming in the corner, with a faint fragrance. ...

Autumn always makes people linger. It is a colored pen, wandering in the north and south of the river, painting the maple leaves on the earth red. A touch of orange sunset hangs on a deep street corner. The wind blows gently, as if this is where it lived. Stop, pick up one and put it in the notebook of the season, about the past of youth.

In this carefree world, everyone has a dream, but in life, we are tired of running around and often blur the original direction. Looking at the page numbers at the moment, every page is a wandering sigh, and soon it will be another autumn. How I want to stay in my youth, watching the sunrise and sunset, watching the lonely forest, listening to the gurgling sound of running water, quiet and far away, with a sense of security. Alone in a corner, the fragrance of tea fades away, and the shadow retracts into the teacup, listening to a Zen conversation. In the brow, I threw the condensed sadness into autumn water, leaving only a touch of plain color washed away by lead China.

The wind in late autumn blew ripples in my heart. On the street at dusk, there is a wisp of graceful feelings. I use the wind as a plow to cultivate the ridge where I remember the details. Vaguely, that year, the blue sky was broken, the banana was drenched, and you put blue and white flowers in your pen container. Under the porcelain vase depicted by the vegetarian embryo, a lotus flower that looks near Mae from a distance is spotless, beautiful and refined, elegant and elegant, so it is fragrant in the world of mortals. Now, who is waving his sleeves lightly, playing a song of high mountains and flowing water, and walking leisurely through the purple stranger? Holding a wolf hair in his hand, swaying in the mountains and rivers in the south of the Yangtze River, dancing with fragrant words, intoxicated with the charm of Qin and Han Dynasties and the customs of Tang and Song Dynasties, just to pursue that short past.

In the street, I don't know which direction the wind is blowing. Intoxicating eyes are a hazy moonlight, listening to the breath of thin wings, penetrating fine light waves, from far to near. The air is filled with the rich flavor of dusk, and the memories drift farther and farther. I don't know which autumn chrysanthemum is mottled behind, and then a wisp of fragrance floats out. You said that I was not the Wushan goddess in Wang Xiangmeng's last life, not a dancing butterfly, but a fairy in the Yaochi beside the Queen Mother, so the story about pear vortex and small mole on my face was beautiful.

Looking back on the dull days, I love to sit quietly in front of the screen, turn on the music, let my thoughts wander in the rivers and lakes of words and dance with the quiet beauty of autumn. Use a graceful lake pen, dipped in fleeting light and shadow, and draw the picture in your heart on a piece of elegant and fragrant paper, and make the impression rendered by splashing ink into a curtain dream, which flows and disappears in the wind of the four seasons. Sorrow and joy are like a dream, and life is a cycle. We are still lamenting the misty rain, and the sun does not know when to evaporate. Life fireworks, ups and downs, let's slow down, quiet jade without fragrance, flowing Ying Ying, combing the emotional feathers.

Fallen leaves beat on the quiet street, shaking off all the smoke and dust, and memories flowed in the dusk. It is not rich Sanchun peony, not noble midsummer hibiscus, but elegant autumn chrysanthemum. Perhaps, in the long river of years, some stories are only suitable for a plot that has fallen out of the water. Some people have known each other for a long time, but their heads are as white as new At this time, I am a leaf from a foreign land, wandering in a city in a hurry and shuttling through strange streets. No one knows where I come from.

Overlooking the fireworks world, compared with all things, people are as small as dust, and the troubles and sorrows in the world can hardly be brought into the Buddha's eyes. If you are tired, why not listen to a song, study ink seal cutting, fill in a few blank words, find a touch of peace in the depths of the soul in a poetic environment, delete the complexity and verbiage, keep it simple and simple, and give the soul a relief. Personally, I yearn for some carefree literati in ancient China to settle down in the walled yard, open a window with clouds all around, sit on a piece of Qingyang stone and be scolded, with chrysanthemum fragrance as the lamp and dew as the tea, and quietly watch the smoke of the four seasons. In the lush spring, watch a flock of flying swallows build their nests with mud under the eaves of wooden houses; In midsummer, the lotus pond is rich and graceful, swaying in the water; In late autumn, geese passed by and tasted a cup of chrysanthemum wine, with a mellow aftertaste between white teeth; On a windy winter night, listening to the long snowflakes, simmering in laughter to keep warm.

Think more, put a handful of wet soil in your heart, sow a seed of memory, let the autumn rain moisten you, let the sun bathe you and bloom fragrant flowers. Fingertips, flowers and smiles, with pink feelings, and the sound of a breeze, played this journey of Qiu Ge. Perhaps, some beauty belongs to only one person; Some flowers belong to only one season; Some memories belong only to the past.

I followed the road and walked quietly with a good mood. Every step is like a dream I had before. In my dream, I have apricot flowers and misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, a courtyard too deep to hide the moonlight, and a familiar smile. Like a lotus dream, it blooms quietly, and every forked vein contains shameful plots.

Perhaps, life is a play, and sometimes we dress ourselves up in rich colors, interpret joys and sorrows in other people's stories, and feel the mixed taste of joy and sorrow. Youth is like a dream, and no one can smile. Why not expand the width, enrich the wisdom and draw on the compassion of water? In the golden years, visit the vegetation, face the stream and live with a smile. With a bright heart, draw a few strokes in the picture of life, which can be vivid or not colorful.

At this time, dusk is a wisp of light smoke, whose door is it in the hazy distance, and a figure with a slight bow stands in the autumn wind? People are wandering in a foreign land, and an oil lamp in the dark is always the only direction and the only concern of life. Those unspeakable feelings only stay in my heart and condense into a choked and affectionate greeting.

Waiting is the only word in the wind. The street where the wind lives, a few homeless residual clouds in the sky, have been smoked into dark yellow. The humble wild chrysanthemum in the corner, blooming in the depths of time and memory, is faint and fragrant.

Migratory birds are far away, people, or a person, walking in the street, with deep footprints, growing a string of footprints and sowing long figures. ...