A boil tea, a cuff breeze, a bosom; forest mountains far outside the window, the sky rainbow hangs high in the sky, from year to year, so the appearance; a glance as flowers, when the moon is not long but Tong Hui, durable; the valley to cherish water, blame the clutch, but ultimately keep years of Chinese, and reincarnation in another world
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The leaves fell, stepping on the withered into the bamboo forest, where the lotus repose, there fine circumcision; twist is a string of beads, holding a book, so devout, Bodhi, Enron carving a silt was not stained dust lotus nut; look back over the shadow, where the neon nightlife, there is quiet if chilling, differing only in the human mind
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The temple is lonesome, some leaves into the shallow pool, some deciduous paved a path, the wind call into dust, not rash, not sad not complain, seems to be already knowing the outcome; last leaf swaying in the wind, was spinning round and round, clear, not nostalgia, not disturbing quiet, just gently Pina dance song
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The mist, like numerous living beings obsessed with love, knowing that the floating dream empty, but in the busy, do Nanke dream thought; however, in the end by a, tired body and mind, just want to find a spare the world peace.
Choke point a fireworks, with his hands clasped in prayer Bodhi, red flavor has tasted, willing to drop Hui West still turning the relic; in the mist listen Sanskrit sound, not like the beautiful melody, but as beacon lights ahead of the pace; whisper Prajna preexistence, met who robbed, and around whose fruit, flowers smile to tell the reason is shallow love love love.
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