What a wonderful thing it is to enjoy the evening. The following is the "ji xianlin: the evening" which is compiled by the overseas study abroad network. Welcome to read, just for your reference, I hope it can help you.
Dusk is mysterious, as long as people live longer, at the end of the day, they have an evening. But the year rolls on, the moon rolls, and they live for countless days, and there are countless evenings. I want to ask: how many people feel the existence of this evening Designated Representative
In the morning, when the dream is flying away from the pillow, they wake up and go on their way for a day. They walked and walked, until noon, and the road suddenly turned. As if just slip away, slip to the end of the day, when they see filled with white smoke in the distance, the treetops light coated with a layer of golden yellow, groups of dusk crow carried sunlight fly back, as if something gently pressure in their mind. They knew it was night. They watch for rest in the twilight; A longing for a dream. Before long, the dim light of night burned their eyes and their hearts. They were busy in the low pass, shutting the door of the evening, and if anyone asked, did you see the evening? The evening was beautiful, but they were lost.
How can they not be dazed? When they looked out of the cliff for the dusk, the evening was gone with the whiteness of the smoke, the gold disappeared from the treetops, and the sun disappeared from the raven's back. There was only a hazy night apartment hong kong
. This evening, like a light dream of a spring night, I do not know when to come, in their heart a sweep, and do not know when to go.
The evening is gone. Where did it go? No, I ask first: where does dusk come from? I don't know. Who can say that? I can't catch a dusk and ask it to the end. From the east? The east is where the sun comes out. From the west? Isn't the west bright red? From the south? The south was full of light and heat, and it seemed to be the best thing to say from the north. If we think about it, we think of the extreme north, the arctic ocean, which we can imagine in our imagination: the white sky, the white snow, and the white iceberg. Farther north, in the white sky, it is not clear which is the sky, is the ground, is the ice, is the snow, is only the hazy gray. Should the twilight of twilight be degenerated from here?
However, the disintegration comes out, but spreads out again. Over the great plains, the prairie, left a shadow; Through the great forest, there was a dark cloud, over the stream, and in the sound of the deep grey twilight, the water was still in the silence; Over the top of the mountain, leaving their stars with the light of the moon; Over the small village, leaving the vast twilight... Each corner was torn off to give each spider a net. In the future Sheung Wan apartment
, the lonely desert came to our country. I could have imagined that if I stood in the desert against the evening, I would have watched the twilight run away from the distant horizon, like -- what is it like? Should it be like a gray mist? Or a diffuse cloud? Ran to, is still left a shadow, and ran, came to our homeland, with the white smoke in the distance, with the light on the treetops, also with the sunset bittern back sunlight, gently landed in people's mind, and been shut out of the house.
But, at the door, it is no matter people care about do not care about, and lonely, cold, arranged for them a phantom change and full of poetic world like fairy tale, hazy twilight, as the shadow of the reflection in the mirror, and give everything with the colour of silver grey dream. The air of the cow's milk seemed to coagulate like real milk. But it seems to be moving in a soft, viscous way. It brings a quiet, you listen to: - cut quietly, like the snow in the middle of the night. But is it dead? But it is no more silent than it is now, and it will be grave and silent. As if there were not a few, and a few, the beautiful light of the soft and soft and soft ground in people's heart, gray sky like a thin curtain; The trees, the houses, the smoke lines, the clouds, are all like the silhouette of a picture, pressed quietly on the curtain. Here, there, dotted with the purple twilight of the sunset and the cold light of the star. The evening is like a poem, a song, a fairy tale; Like the melodious flute that comes from a moon tower, one wreathed in the hollow of a crane; Like a few decades of wine; Things that are too beautiful to say. Can't say, can only see; If you don't see enough, you can only agree; I can only admire the lack of it. But at last the door was shut.
Is it me who shut the door? I want to be careful, because people, not all people, are not all people. When I was a child, I used to stay in the patio and wait for the evening. I don't mean to say I'm better than anyone else. The idea is simple: people don't go, or they don't want to go. I (and others) have often done so. And I will know: it is dusk. I looked out through the crack of the wind door: gray sky, gray roof covered with snow. The cold moon, which is half curved, is in the sky, though a little desolate; But still cannot hide the beauty of the evening. At this time, even the people who were sitting in the patio waiting for it had to curl up in the room. Only the grayish snow accompanied it in the cold outside the door, the illusion of the hazy world made for who to see? Don't you feel lonely at dusk?
But loneliness is not long. The dusk still leaves. Li shangyin's poem says: "the sunset is infinitely good, just near sunset." The poet is not right to lament that the evening can't stay? It is also true that it cannot stay long, a blink of an eye, and this evening, like a light dream, only takes a sweep of people's heart, leaving a dark night, with its loneliness to go away.
Gone, really gone. Now let me ask: where did the twilight go? I don't know where it came from. I can't catch the tail of the evening and ask it to the end. But, come to think of it, the north should go to the south. Who said it was not to the south? I saw how it went. -- over the south wall; Across the south hill, the forest; Over the beautiful south. All the way to the distant Africa.
Here, however, dusk still leaves. Where to go? But nobody really knows. -- with the pale white light of the cold moon climbing up into the dark sky? Did the little star that watched him climb up the tianhe river? Did they get into the eaves on their wings? With the halo of the western sky in the back of the distant mountains? Who knows? We know, only: it has gone, with its loneliness and beauty gone, like a tiny, like a sweet dream.
Go now. Now, what do I have to ask? Waiting for tomorrow? Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. When people see filled with white smoke in the distance, the treetops light coated with a layer of golden yellow, groups of dusk crow carried sunlight fly back, as if there's something in their mind, they are eager to the coming of the dream. Shut the door. The evening was still in and out, and the evening was long gone when they stretched out their heads again. Out of the arctic ocean, down the road, into the forests of Africa. And again, where, who knows? However, the night came: the dark night, the starlight and the moonlit night, the night floating on the night... But night, long night, night never end, dusk? Dusk never exists in people's hearts. Just a sweep, gone, like a sweet dream.