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