The sea of clouds is clear and the dust is clear, the mountains and rivers are full of shadows, and the cold cinnamon blows the fragrant snow.
Song Yan turned her head to look at him. The man was walking barefoot on the snow, and the down on his clothes was stained with a little snow color.
There was no emotion or anger in his expression, just a calm expression. My eyes were fixed on the red line of his ankle.
When gods and Buddhas lower their eyebrows, they cannot see sentient beings.
It took a long time, so long that the snow disappeared and the mountains were filled with flowers like fire.
He walked to my side and spoke word by word.
"From now on, you don't have to kneel to gods or Buddhas."
"The Twelve Golden Immortals will bless you with success in your life."
"You don't have to bend your knees for anyone or anything." He said calmly, like a prayer, "Those people also include me."
There is a legend among the Qizang tribe that the eighth second of night between the setting sun and the desert is the freest.
Hai Chenqing's finger touched the center of her eyebrow, leaving a red mark there.
He murmured: "The red plum blossoms in the eyebrows will bring peace and stability for eternity."
The beads in his palm broke and scattered on the ground.
On the day Song Yan left, it was rare that it didn't snow in Quzhou.
There was a book lying quietly in the car, a collection of poems.
Opening the title page, there is only one sentence: "You may see me, or you may not see me. I am here, neither sad nor happy."
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