into the stream,
As if singing the symphony of spring,
The evening breeze mixed with the smell of hot soup,
Can' t tell which is a flower and which is a butterfly
He bent slightly, and at the same time whispered: Welcome,
Naughty blowing little bubbles,
Underwater small fish swaying gracefully,
crystal clear,
There is a small stream beside the lotus pond,
The mountains are rolling up and down,
danced lightly,
Bend it now and then,
look around,
The stream is microwaved,
The sound of rushing water is clear and pleasant,
Pieces of green in different shades,
in the left and right rows of realistic robots wearing maid costumes,
The houses in the distance are misty and smoky,
looming, smoky,
like a mirage,
The long branches on the side of the bridge hang in a string,
There is a bridge over the creek,
The flowers are fragrant, the petals are fluttering,
The moon shadow casts infinite silver threads,
Solanum nigrum, Ryan followed Croton to get off,
The flowers follow the breeze,
sometimes lift it up,
like a paradise on earth,
The wind caressed all kinds of flowers and plants by the stream,
Watching the outside world carefully,
As if the earth was breathing rhythmically,
attracted a dazzling group of butterflies,
Like patches of green misty ocean,
The shimmering light of fireflies shuttled through the grass.
The grass that just sticks its head out,