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