Acquaintance like tea, Acacia like wine

1:
The year-old flower is similar to the year-old one. The year-old flower is different from the year-old one?
By chance, it is inevitable.
Jun liru Feng, Jun go like Feng.
This heart has nowhere to drift. Nowhere to live.
In that case, an accident occurs, that is, a face appears.
Pear, pink, and red. Brilliant.
In the peach flowers in March, the Iraqi people lightly covered the noodles.
Come and gently wake up your daughter's dream.

2:
The Spring Festival is long afraid of early flowers, not to mention countless Red! Blame spring. It's just a matter of diligence.
Knowing each other is inevitable, but by accident.
This is what we know.
End to a cup of tea, invite you, the moon is blank, have a drink.
As always, smile, smile gently, opposite. Please sit in.
Moon is like water.
Said Jun, with a warm heart.
In July, the agitation floated on the face.
AcaciaStrong and concentrated. In contrast. Let alone worry.

3:
I want to pay for my worries. Who listens to the broken string because there are few Zhiyin?
Spring and Autumn are silent, and the geese are also sad. Enter the wine. No email.
The wind is so cool.
Lingering musicAcaciaThick. You have no idea how to send a voice message.
The face is worn out and powerless. Autumn wind and autumn rain cold into the window.
Heart-breaking, tens of millions of pieces, thousands of pieces, into the rain, all with the wind.
On July 15, September.
A mountain offering to Chongyang. The Chrysanthemum soul is still going.
It cannot win the cold. To go to qionglou, follow the breeze.
The music is too music to tell the truth.
4:
Be patient. If the sky is happy, the sky is also old. This is the case. Thin, silky, and ethereal.
One night, the wind is tight, and the flowers bloom.
The light is not cold-resistant, and a red plum is proud of the snow.
The acquaintance was like tea, And the fate was explained.
AcaciaSimilar to wine, strong and out of love.
No matter how heartless it is, you can never see each other again.
The rise of magpie is the beginning of dawn, and there is no return.
No intention of fighting for spring, a group of jealousy. Scattered into mud grinding dust, falling red is a thing of love.

Postscript:
I have never known how to miss some things, some people, some fate, some occasional, some inevitable, so I learned to be destiny, so I learned to appreciate myself, so I learned to enjoy the scenery, all of them.
I have never known how to write some injuries, some pains, some joys and sorrows. So speechless, so silent, so speechless. From the beginning, clean up the old mountains and rivers, but white the young head, empty sorrow.
This hate is a long term.