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