Listen to the spring
Yao Shiying. I took a picture here 30 years ago.
Thirty years later, I'm looking for the shadow around me.
The fountain I heard thirty years ago.
It is the spring flowers that sprout.
Thirty years later, I hear the leaves falling.
Lu You also left his figure here.
A man listened to the chirping of cicadas for hundreds of years.
His heart was empty.
The people of Li are civilian, and they are on official business.
Vicissitudes and melancholy creep out of the wrinkles.
Lean down and listen to the wellspring of your heart.
Find the direction of the flowing water and resonate with the gyration.
The autumn breeze polishes the memory of time
Junqing chases the sun. Flocks of restless geese flock to the floodlit riverbank.
The mountain village at sunset is stained with cooking smoke.
The maple leaves on the west hill are dry.
The seeds of the persimmon tree hang down, unrecognizable.
Which are the hopes.
The accumulated power is left idle in the branches.
In the distance, there is no end in sight to the rolling mountains.
Layer after layer, it is the folds of time.
Wrapped in the memories of my aching grandparents.
A seasonal river.
Gravel everywhere, like a familiar story.
The sores were bare, and I couldn't make out the footprints.
Repeatedly tendered at the corner of the street home.
The most feared thing is to recall those familiar names.
A long-lost vernacular.
Drifting from the depths of the cooking smoke.
The name of the milk is sometimes high and sometimes low at the end of the earthen wall short alley.
So familiar, clear.
My memories were hollowed out.
At dusk when the autumn leaves are scattered, talk to the shadows.
Waning Moon
Mei Shanzi. Gaza Strip.
The rocket smirked and whistled through the night sky.
The moon is broken, missing.
Debris fell into the streets of the neighborhood.
Fall to the hospital. Everywhere there are debris, stumps, whecks.
Red The red of the ground.
The silver moon vomited blood.
It's not a moment when a car window slides past you
Li Wei. It's the freeze frame of our life.
We're like a haze.
In a moment when the eyes crossed.
Gather together to become ourselves.
It then dissipated. A moment that dissipated.
I can still come to the car window again.
Write letters on the small table.
That letter was long, and it was written for a long time.
But no matter how long, no matter how long it is, it won't last for a moment.
As I wrote, the words on the paper dissipated.
Flowing water backwards
Autumn Moon Maple. Me and a few spiders in the dirt.
Let's talk about agriculture here this year.
When it comes to water and land.
There was a thorn in his throat.
The spider finally couldn't hold its throat.
yelled: Get out.
I was aggrieved like a child.
Flowing water flowed from heaven to earth.
It flows from Qilian Mountain to Shiyang River.
From Shiyang River to Qingtu Lake.
Then cross Badain Jarin from Qingtu Lake.
Flowing to the heavens. Such stories.
Repeatedly, we.
After all, he became the spokesperson in the story.
In the same vein. Bury a mournful cry
Ancient locust tree. Keep writing appeals.
Let Shen Grievance read you.
Lead the way, palm lamp.
Give a hint of shine and warmth.
A worried heart, in the midst of painful despair.
Until the last moment of life.
Ode to the West Wind
To John Ashberry.
The pupil of the afterglow. The text is cut into rough branches.
The leaves of the trees in winter are bald.
You're familiar with the cold way of writing.
Polyphonic chants are sung, overlapping lengthy chants.
Inspiration returns, changing the mood of decadence.
A sonata, always.
Happens inadvertently.
Joyful and sentimental, birch-like embarrassment.
The empty space has been occupied by the horns of the hunters.
As Xi is, poetry brings.
Westerly winds and isolated prey.
You are like a stonefish, falling from the shore.
Beloved verses of the past, like.
Repeated pauses in the cold snap.
Your only hope is that words can be.
Survive in the icy crevices of the rock.
The wind whistles in my ears
Li Zhefu. The wind, howling.
The loneliness grinded out by loneliness has nowhere to redress in the abyss.
A large number of cruise ships on the shore blocked the sunset and receded.
In the deep blue of the sky, the top of the distant mountains reveals a very colorful purple.
Let a sparse shadow become more and more dim.
A white bird skimmed across the lake and came to rest at the stern of the boat.
A beautiful woman's phone is aiming.
A feather floated in front of him.
It became more and more quiet for a while.
When I was busy making a living in southern Yunnan, I didn't come to see it.
So far, there are no regrets......