The wind dyed away the red flowers all over the place, the sky was blue and misty rain fell, and the lake surface rippled slightly.
She held an oil-paper umbrella in her hand and walked by the lake. The reflection in the lake was so strange and yet so unchanged.
The umbrella is crimson, and the clothes are also crimson.
At some point, the drizzle turned into flying snow, and the top of the pavilion in the center of the lake glowed slightly with white light. The snowflakes are scattered on the umbrella, passing away, falling again and passing away.
Stop and look at the small boat in the middle of the lake from a distance, and the faintly seen man in blue and plain robes drinking wine alone and composing poems in the pavilion in the middle of the lake.
She thought for a moment, how great it would be if she was also one of the flying snow, then she could cross this long lake, fly beside him, and see his eyebrows - maybe in this way, she would be lucky enough to appear in his poems and songs.
For a moment, she felt pity for the flying snow. It was only this season of the year that could accompany him. But as long as she passed by this lake and held a small umbrella, she could be far away... Was she really satisfied with this haziness? Until the heavy snow turned the oil-paper umbrella white, dyed the lingerie skirt white, and wet the eyebrows and eyelashes and trembled slightly. Until the leaf boat in the middle of the lake disappeared by the lake, and the pavilion in the middle of the lake became normal and lonely again.
Her obsession disappeared with the gentle shaking of the umbrella handle.
He murmured softly: There are thousands of layers of snow on the eyebrows, and thousands of feet of cold in the cup. I don't know where you are, the heart of the lake is whispering. She put away her umbrella and laughed at her excessive softness and pretentiousness. Heaven and earth are not my destiny.
Conception: