Tibet, in the memory, who is your past? I still remember that Dawa Dolma’s dance is still so beautiful, the white Hada is as beautiful as the snow on the mountain.
I still remember the Tibetan old aunt who was holding the butter cake and looked kindly. The kindly old abba held the barley wine, and the clear fragrance was in the memory.
A song that was first and foremost, drifting through the ears, drifting through the heart, drifting through the mountains, Dawa Zhuoma is like the most beautiful cloud in the blue sky, and her figure stays in the beautiful Yarlung Zangbo River.
The wind blew through the tents of the grassland. The songs of the shepherds drifted through the green pastures. The ancient Tibet, who is your favorite, is the most beautiful past in your life?
Red land, like a burning flame; blue sky, blue water, blue eyes, blue heaven, a nostalgic nostalgia, who wrote the poems in the afternoon of the flowering mulberry flower ?
The white clouds above the Potala are still floating under the melodious bells of the Jokhang Temple. My ears are like the pure songs of Hoh Xil, fluttering in detail.
The flock stroking the overlapping sunlight on the grass, how many ancient vicissitudes the breeze blows, from the eyelids to the palms, from the mountains to the grasslands.
Tibet, who are you listening to? The white snow on the Himalayas is crystallized on the land of Tibet. Is the Gesangmeidu in full bloom on the snowy mountain still so fragrant?
The Ali girl who rushed to the yak, walked across the hills and crossed the villages. In the snowy poetry, did you hear the blessings and singing of the gods?
The rivers and pastures under the snow-capped mountains are the hometown of many people’s dreams. The dancing scriptures are like the water plants in the sea. The blue snow wind blows the sound of the horses on the mountain, and the inscriptions of the past are far from the sentimentality of the years.
If a dream is a thousand years, a dream is a thousand years.
Songtsan Gambo and Princess Wencheng have become a monument of history. The moonlight kisses the tired heart, and the white Hada blesses peace and blesses the good fortune in the hands of the girl with bright eyes.
The blood of the Hoh Xil Tibetan antelope is hot like a flame, and the light of the piece stabbed my eyes; who in the moonlight whispered the moon before the bed, let the thoughts, accompanied by the wild wind in Tibet. The song is flying.