On the Bank of the river, there is a path, dense. The tall reed hugs it. There is no sunlight, no human trace, occasionally birds passing by, but only fleeting. Quiet and lonely, is still the theme of its life.
Few people patronize it, occasionally, a few voles swagger past, it is full of vicissitudes of life on the face, then printed a few lines of messy footprints. It should be happy, isn't it? Regardless of spring flowers and Autumn Moon. There are always flowers and plants to share its joys and sorrows, insect bands will always accompany it affectionately, and a wisp of light and fresh wild flowers are its brilliant ornaments at the hairline. However, no one can understand its continuous sigh
It's life is fading away in the plain, every time far away big brother proud to light up thousands of lights, even issued tired. The moan of pain is that it is always secretly sad: This is probably my sorrow!
The wild flowers have lost season after season, the reeds have withered one after another, and the quiet road seems to have never changed It hopes, no, it yearns, yearns for someone to find it in surprise, more eager for someone to know themselves, to understand themselves, to be able to give people a happy paradise, their body has countless flowers, the river around them is singing happily, sometimes, it will dream. In the dream, a pair of familiar and strange footprints have stepped on it, the joy of running, leaving no pain, only happiness
On the Bank of the river, there is a road of dreaming, quietly, as if thinking about something