In late autumn, time crushes fallen leaves, and time crushes the sun and the moon. I smell hay and yellow leaves, which are a little burnt and seem familiar.
I appreciate the charm of moonlight. I grind a big tree into countless holes, polish it into a sieve, and filter the four seasons.
Fallen leaves, grinding the moonlight, sprinkled into the Woods where I once set foot, sifted out the white-haired grandfather, fell into the dust, and were buried by the dust of clouds.
Only the broken moon has become a song sung by children.
I admire the magic of the sun. I want to dye the shady towering trees yellow and black; We must bleach the children's temples, tan the forest and screen out the trees.
Grind the sun, sift the four seasons, tear up the cultivated grandfather to dry, and then filter it into the soil to turn black.
Shredded sunlight, according to the legend of immortality of matter, must change from one carbohydrate to another, and finally become a ghost fire with a flickering soul.
Ruthless sun and moon insist on drilling in trees, drilling countless holes and even squeezing themselves in.
Sun and moon, we must burn grass, burn it, burn it yellow, burn it red, burn it white ... just like milking, we won't stop until there is no milk.
The polishing of the sun and the moon wiped out the dinosaurs of Permian and Jurassic. Only indelible time, according to the laws of natural movement, can make everything in the universe move, and let the fallen leaves fly in the eternal tower of movement and move forever.
Without that kind of life, you can escape the torture of the sun and the moon; Let the sun and the moon kill endlessly.
The sun and the moon, with infinite power, crush pieces of fallen leaves and calculate the future of the universe, as well as the beautiful trajectory and aura of tomorrow.
Fallen leaves: taken in Hohhot in 2020165438+1October 6.
two
As the sun sets, I am walking in the Woods in the evening. The leaves that were neat and majestic last night are now trembling with fear.
The torn sunset drowned the moonlight, and the forest was covered by the broken sunset.
The autumn sunshine dyed the distant mountains red, which is definitely not the credit of the sunset. Last night, the whistling west wind blew the leaves all over the ground. Autumn leaves dye rivers red and villages yellow. ...
My eyes are full of fallen leaves and moonlight torn by the moon. The broken moonlight finally wrote autumn proudly on the earth. The moonlight dances on the fallen leaves. Why can the sun and the moon attract the chilly autumn wind and sing and cry with the dancing leaves?
The earth is collecting its own children and yellow leaves. Pieces of moonlight and sunshine fall under my feet, making me step on the rustling music, my heart moving with the leaves and my feet dancing. I can't help flying the long-lost moonlight and looking at the moon that leaves no longer cover.
The neon lights on both sides of those roads reflected the Woods, so we had to have fun and fall into the Woods. Perhaps this fallen leaf is the years under the neon, and a fallen leaf is a colorful life.
Tonight, the stars are quiet, the leaves are quiet, the wind is quiet, and the years are quiet tonight. The sun, the moon and the stars, like brushes or pigments, go around from the yellow leaves of hay around me, constantly looking for and coloring the grass. There are trees that were green a few days ago, all painted clean, and some people miss the past in the old house where the moonlight has broken all over the place, and sometimes they sigh.
Fallen leaves, floating into the lights; Fallen leaves, dye the starry sky yellow; Fallen leaves, in the quiet moonlight, tell the constant changes.
Fallen leaves, floating into rivers and falling into lakes and seas; The moment the fallen leaves float into the soil, a new life and a new tomorrow are born.
Leaves fall in late autumn, and head up to the winter snow. There are mountains of fallen leaves in countless ages, and there is nowhere to put them.
The melting of winter snow melts the fallen leaves into the river and washes them repeatedly, accompanied by the continuous flow of the river. Accumulated fallen leaves, blood of years, home of life. ...
Editor's Note: This article was published in the column "Lu Youcheng's Works" of "Essence of Prose Poetry" in June 5438+065438+ 10, 2020.
About the poet: Lu Youcheng, pen name: Seabuckthorn. A native of Helinger County, Inner Mongolia, was born in February 1963, graduated from North China Electric Power University, and wrote more than 30 academic papers. I like writing poems after my major. He is a member of the Western Prose Society and the director of Young Writers magazine. His articles often appear on literary platforms and magazines.
Mainly based on local literature, readers are welcome to contribute, and the email address is 23885800@qq com.
No 10 of 2020 (general number 10)