Firefly flies in August

There was thunder and lightning outside the window, and a violent storm opened up the night. In the heat of the summer, summer flows with young people.

Summer slips past and leaves a little secret... A Pink Memory flies through the summer with my thoughts.

The past can not be recalled, and the years are quiet with her. Autumn is the season of plenty, but I have no good reason in spring, I have no hard work in summer, so autumn is not fruitful.

In the face of the coming autumn, I find that my heart is less ambitious for the future.

Chang'an city, haze ten miles, at first will not be used to, but gradually I seem to like this feeling. The feeling of being in a fairyland. But also forget that the early autumn is still a vigorous stove, followed by endless rain, and then the feeling of coldness, there will be a winter snow falling, dancing in our eyes. Sorrowful people, looking at the sky flying snow, must be a thousand thoughts, standing in a corner of the street, looking at the sky after the snow...

Qinling Mountains is boundless and endless. The forest and sea flickered. Steep cliff, old Chencang road. Snow capped mountains, solitary Eagles hovering.

The straight Guanzhong Ring Line separates the Qinling Mountains from the Guanzhong Plain; the extended Qinling Mountains lead to the north and south of China; and the steep Shu Road connects Chang'an and Tianfu.

The Weishui River is sweeping, the black crane is independent, the sandbank is stagnant, on the water side, the big fish is far away, the birds are circling, the thunder is rolling, the black cloud is crushed, the breeze is slowly coming, the time is flowing, the rain falls on the world, the umbrella is full of the world, colorful, the ripples are fluttering.

The Yellow River nine songs, across the mountains, East flows like the sea. Huashan is steep and located at the northern foot of Qinling Mountains. In the spring and Autumn period, the sea and the sea are all over.

Decadent fingertips are not worthy of the old face. The thick hair has blocked out the faces. Thin back, treading through mountains and rivers. The fading footprint is slowly swallowed up by the yellow sand. It is snow year, and this autumn is fruitful. The old branchlets are already in the sky.

Time is an endless song, we ride the boat down the river, cross-strait passes dark, fog, desert and there are thousands of red, flowers like brocade...