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