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