Love's Snow in Hunan

[Heavy snow in Hunan] Hold a party for Changsha Middle School, Li Luo Fu's hometown. . . A: Read! I never tire of reading it. For this poem, I dedicated it to the past in Lovlov. Now I am thinking about rain and snow and asking about the date of return. The return date has long been written in the rain of the late Tang Dynasty, carrying me through my rain. It has been condensed for two thousand years. Snow falls on Dongting Lake, Yuelu Mountain and your sleepless window. It was a complicated and simple silence, just like your desk with candlelight shining. At first, a cold wind swept up the curtain and I went in. I just left. Your study looked up and looked around. The walls of Jiao Ran were dyed white by snow and light, and my beard was dyed white. Before greeting, there are some distant fears. Fortunately, the smell of wine on the stove gradually dispelled the chill of history. You said: wine is a good way to go home at dusk! All right! I happily raised my glass, and then coughed heavily with a strong Hunan accent, only to find Leng Xue flying away from the window. You and I gathered in this snowy night and suddenly shrank into an inch of knees. We only have one candle to cut tonight. Although it is short, the words in the ashes can be piled up into a history. You often persuade people to drink red water from a quiet stove. Drinking is a shallow smile and a silent sigh. Unspeakable sadness is a pile of old letters, but it's cold today. Tomorrow's warmth is a plate of fried bacon. Poetry aesthetics is a bowl of fried crucian carp. A noon lotus is the Jiang Tao in your bosom. This is a wave in my blood. It's a poem written by Chu people, which is more than tears. This is the excitement of the fifties and the flying spirit of the sixties. At this time, there was a rustling sound outside the window. Shh! It sounds all right to you, but it's just a pair of spikes walking through the snow and falling on the silent street. When the street lamp is awake, it falls asleep, the soil is asleep, the roots are awake, the birds are awake, the temples are asleep, the bells are awake, the scenery is awake, the seeds are asleep in spring, the blood is awake, the books are awake, the poems are awake, the history is asleep, the world is asleep, and you and I are awake, and the snow is silent. Charcoal is extremely cold outdoors and the body is extremely hot. Have a cup of herbal tea. Let a little awake to regulate internal and external body temperature. Tomorrow, we will no longer panic, because we finally know how to wash our eyes with snow and refine our thoughts with condensation in the snow. The myth made up in the past is nothing more than a bed that makes people sweat, naked and wake up in the middle of the night. We have experienced wind and frost, pain, persistence and giving up. Sometimes we hold our heads high and sometimes we bury our heads in the sand. Those lost years support the lamp. The years when the cage looked for its own shadow were before the heavy snow. Tonight, maybe we can allow some arguments, some bash elbows, some sad thoughts, and more lamentations that we forgot to say. This is not to say that when we have no choice but to sing, we will be forced to go back because of hiccups. Tonight, I am touring in the snow, and I don't know where is my other shore tomorrow. You and I have never * * * Tonight, the boy who lives a fat horse and is light and hairy is talking about the universe. So ambiguous! Who can decipher the impermanence of this life? Push open the window and bid farewell to the sky with biting cold. Just when you cut the candle again, I flew into the darkness and threw myself into a white space to chase the sun hundreds of millions of miles away, just to find the answer.