Life is not only about what is in front of you, but also about poetry and distance. ”
But in the distance, where is it?
Far away, how far away?
Far away, is it still a distant place that once belonged to you?
Far away is the ignorant longing of childhood.
Or, the mountains and rivers of Mu Shaoai.
Or maybe it's an old bed when you're sleepy right now.
The distance is gradually becoming the past.
Poetry, there have been dreams.
Poetry, there has been a radiant spirit, poetry, there has been a breeze and a bright moon.
Poetry, there have also been tears in the rain.
A line of words, a sentence, a piece of the past.
One day, the poem became a mixture of firewood, rice, oil and salt.
One night, poetry degenerated into trivialities.
In doubt, the poem wrote an autobiography full of complaints.
Poetry, perhaps, is more suitable for the tangle of white roses and red roses.
Occasional recollection.
Poetry has become a memory.
One day I suddenly found out.
The world has gotten bigger.
The distance has become smaller.
The road has become longer. The direction disappeared into the distance.
The so-called life is nothing more than that.
You and I are getting old.
The wanton youthfulness only stays on the yellowed **.
Something is blurry.
And something.
Before you know it, it's gone.
What do I use to pay tribute to the poems and distant places that once favored me?
Scales and hair, wind and frost sword.
Stand on the highest point of time and look into the distance.
Among the weeds in front of the tombstones.
I don't know whose poems and distant places are buried.