Zhou Mengdie (February 6, 1921 - May 1, 2014), whose real name is Zhou Qishu, was born in Nanyang, Henan. Due to the war at that time, the normal school was not completed, and he joined the army in 1948 and withdrew to Taiwan with the army. Seven years later, due to physical illness, he retired from the army and fended for a living. He lost his mother in his youth, his wife in middle age, and his son in his old age, and his life was declared to be incomplete in a lonely and desolate way. Light dust perches on weak grass, the soul is lonely, and the spirit is also lonely. However, in poetry, Zhou Mengdie has a continuous and full force, self-redemption, self-preaching, and wants to "conquer the sorrow of life with the sorrow of poetry" all her life. To a certain singer
One word and one frustration and one suppression.
One word at a time, one frustration.
The singing rang out from the right of the man.
Soul soul soul soul.
If there is more water in the peach blossoms, there will be more water in the person.
The moon has fallen, the magpie is still around, and the dew is multiplying.
I want to climb this spider's silk and pass away.
Soul soul soul soul.
The man had turned the road ahead and the night sky upside down.
Raised overhead.
Moon River
Walk along the quiet Ganges.
The quiet moon of the Ganges walks beside me
I am the shadow of the Ganges.
The quiet moon of the Ganges is my shadow.
It has been up and down with the sound of the river.
also with the shadow of the moon and the light disappears;
On a long stream that has no end and no beginning.
In a rotating and rotating void.
How is the moon in heaven like the moon in water?
How is the moon in the water like the moon in a dream?
The moon enters a thousand waters, and the water contains a thousand moons.
Is that January you?Is that January me?
Say that the water and the moon are from me.
Far away, there is no place to come from;
Where it comes from: Where it comes from where it doesn't come from.
Where did you come from?
Thinking about the light of the moon, the flow of water, my walk.
It's up to him, not himself
With my eyes as sails and feet as oars, I want to go up against the water with the moon on my back.
Straight into the Ganges when the first sand is not born.
I choose the twenty-first line
I choose purple, I choose to go to bed early, get up early, go out early, and return early.
I choose cold porridge, broken inkstones, sunny windows, busy people are idle and idlers are busy.
I choose to do everything as a last resort, no matter how big or small, I always do it myself.
I choose what one person can do for himself, and one person can do what he can for a hundred.
I choose to use water as a teacher – high and flat in high places, low flat in low places.
I choose to use grass as my life, such as rolling and applying, uprooting and not dying.
I choose to sit high, and when the earth is moving, I am happy to move with it.
I choose the years to be quiet, and the macaques also know how to eat fruit and worship the tree.
I choose to read his books and recite his poems without having to know them.
I choose to have a good article but not a good sentence.
I choose to be as good as the wind and water, and there are uninvited guests to come alone.
I chose the pivot and did not ignore the rotation.
I chose Chunjiang plumbing, bamboo outside the peach blossom three or two.
I chose to drift away and become one with the mountains outside the sunset mountain, and I never deviated from the foot.
I choose ** Pavilion: How much is it a grievance, though.
Through the ear, not in the heart.
I chose the chicken not to lay eggs, the eggs to not lay chickens, the first first Weiyin King Rulai did not descend.
I choose the river to be angry, the stream to be clear, the road to be straight, and people to be virtuous and lustful.
I choose nothing to think about, and I don't have to worry about anything.
I chose to be lightning fast.
I choose the last person to attain enlightenment.
2. Ten days after the Dragon Boat Festival in the fourth year.
Broken Souls
On May 18, Taoyuan Daxi Penny House visited friends but did not meet.
All the way. At the age of seventy-nine, I was on top.
Seventy-nine-year-old wind and rain.
At the wrong path, at the end of the wrong path.
Again, there was a misguideline.
May I ask my husband: When will the peach blossoms bloom?
Does the wind and rain have eyes but no eyes?
How many ducks are there in Daxi Langbo tonight?
Small**, it can be regarded as your Ji people meeting Ji people!
The wind blows on your own.
For whom is the soul broken?Unbelief is at the end of the road.
It's on the stone bridge with a bamboo fence.
There are three papaya trees on that side, there are early.
Miserable and swaying, fists and fists are as familiar as ever.
Fireflies holding small palace lights.
Waiting for you. The disaster star is the blessed star.
Another you in the next world.
For a long time, I don't know the moonlight and the rooster cry at dawn.
Thinking of the disaster star is the blessed star, think of it.
The amorous wind and rain, the wrong way and the old man-
For whom is the soul broken?When I pushed the pillow up.
The Hsinchu outside the house has been overnight, and the gloomy is the sheng and the zheng is built.
For the penny, and between the peach blossoms and green waves on both sides of the river.
As soon as it was shot, it was as far as March.
It was finalized on August 4, 1999. From the first sentence on the penny house pillow, the ground wheel has rotated 66 degrees. Laughter.
Thirteen white chrysanthemums
On September 13, 66, he purchased Bodhi Zi prayer beads from the Shandao Temple. On the rattan chair on the right side of the bookstall, there are a large handful of white chrysanthemums: the air is clear, the fragrance is eye-catching, and I don't know whose family left it. Carry it to the small attic and store it in a bottle of waterThe third day of the Yue is thanks. Posthumously recorded on January 23, 67.
There has never been such a flicker, if there is a loss, and if there is a gain.
Under the morning sun of the cramped room.
In the sound of cars and figures.
A thought is white!I shuddered at thirteen.
This number. Speechless mourning is a wordless elegy.
Suddenly, I felt a sense of goodbye.
Poplar-like struck the heart;
Suddenly, I felt that this stone pillar was a mound, and this bookshelf was broken and mottled.
It's a desolate monument leaning on the mound!
Whether my remains to dissipate for.
Sand and gravel in the mound?And the geist.
Naturally, miles away, like the lightning of the wind.
Drifting back and thinking:
Who are the flowers for?This heart is fragrant.
I want to sigh for a long time.
Where is it from, a distant guest who does not want to be known?
I can't think of it, I can't say that I was before the catastrophe.
Or Buddha, or rivers and lakes, or words or flesh and bones.
The clouds are deep and the fog is deep: this man!There will be a kind with me.
Too close and farther, than soaring, and finally returning to the cause of unevenness
Just once, and then for life.
Feeling love and affection.
Grateful for the mother of water and soil and the father of the wind and sun.
Thank you for loving you!When the grass freezes and frosts wither.
Not for many, not for one.
Chrysanthemums!Compound valve, multiple, and never sleep.
Autumn Eyes: Shine on the hearts of the deceased, a clump.
A little cold flame...
There is no butterfly word in Yuanming's poems;
And I'm alone with chrysanthemums?
In the midst of swaying. Suddenly, I was amazed at myself:
Drink and get drunk, and don't drink and get drunk.
There is no weight that does not occupy an area of oneself.
Laughing. In the lingering tears.
The morning of the Nine Palaces
The Nine Palaces bird called.
In the morning, it jumped out all at once.
Over there on the balcony on the fourth floor.
Three gray pigeons just got up.
Jagged feathers, to the outside of the building.
Flew a ride.
Fly back again;Gently land on the orange-red appendix.
That's it: you stick to me, I push you.
Or, inadvertently.
Peel and peck a piece of evergreen.
or clematis leaves.
It's like a hangover.
Shanshan, according to the earnest.
A small butterfly.
Black stamp, white chapter.
Fly around the lilacs.
Nor is he afraid of cold dew.
Stain her garments.
I don't know if it's another butterfly.
Early in the morning every day.
When the Nine Palaces bird called.
The little girl, about fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen years old.
The echo of the Nine Palaces Bird).
appeared lightly on the balcony.
First, holding the watering can.
Water high and low potted plants.
After that, he hooked his head.
Put a flood of autumn water.
Hair that doesn't know how to worry.
Combed and washed, washed and combed.
And unscrupulous.
Put the snow neck with the fingers of the green onion.
Naked to teenagers in the morning.
Not far from the girl's right shoulder.
Over there. Under the shadow of the cockscomb flower and the spring of the day.
Empty rattan chairs.
A little flower cat is in a hurry.
And Xinghui will be dripping in washing his face.
So, the world is all here.
The world is all here.
So tactful, so loud and real.
When early in the morning every day.
The Nine Palaces bird called.
Lonely Country
Last night, I dreamed of me again.
Sitting naked on a snow-negative peak.
The climate here is glued to the interface between winter and spring.
The snow here is gentle as velvet)
There is no sound of the city here.
Only the whisper of time chewing on the regurgitation of time.
There are no cobras, owls or human-faced beasts.
Only mandala flowers, olive trees and jade butterflies.
There are no words, warp and weft, and a Buddha with a thousand hands and a thousand eyes.
At the touch was a chaotic and silent force.
The day is as quiet as the night.
The night is more beautiful, abundant, and radiant than the day.
And the cold here is like wine, sealed with poetry and beauty.
Even the void knows how to talk, inviting the starry ...... who have forgotten to say anything in the sky
The past is gone, and the future will not come.
I am a servant of the present and an emperor.