Wang Rujuan from Huang Qian Middle School, Jiangsu Province
People's home is not just a specific land, but a vast and incomparable mood. Once this emotion is aroused, you have returned to your hometown.
-Shi Tiesheng
There is an elf wandering in the south of Guizi and Shili Lotus in Sanqiu. There is an elf whose suffering is like a drizzle in early summer and cold as the moon in winter night. It is a poem-the brightest drop of blood in human blood vessels.
The passage of time can't take away those classic stories, and Jiao Ge's pain can't wear off the poet's eternal face.
Jiangzhou misty rain "Pipa Travel"
One autumn night, I stayed at Poyang Lake. Following the pipa, I saw two lines of clear tears spilling over Poyang Lake. The autumn rain in the south of the Yangtze River is continuous. I can lift the cup in my hand, but I can't put it down.
At that moment, I walked on the strings of the singer, and the pipa sounded in the empty wind. Every tear, every touch vibrates in my heart. The only unbroken string in loneliness is humming a sad tune, looking for maple leaves falling in the rustling autumn wind …
Liquor is burning in my chest, and in my heart, there is only hard ambition, only depression. For thousands of years, the pipa sound has always been lonely; Guanghua is bleak, and times have changed. What flows far away is the hustle and bustle of the world and the stew of the crowd, coupled with the unspeakable burden struggle; The willow is broken, the swallow is gone, the temples are frosted, and the sword in the hand is rusted. I wonder if I can go back to my dream. ...
So, I, Jiangzhou Sima, was wet with tears. Pipa trip, my desolate home.
time goes by ...
I have to get back.
I look up at the beautiful scenery of Nanshan. Turbid fog, it is still so lofty and detached; Through thick and thin, it is still so calm.
On the hillside, chrysanthemums are colorful and fragrant. At dusk, I lay on my pillow and floated around in it. I was alone, watching a lonely wild goose in a cloud of three thousand miles. The cool breeze and bright moon can lead to far-sighted thinking; Flowing clouds can clear the heart.
Sang Ma Day has gone, and my territory is getting wider and wider.
I planted beans at the foot of Nanshan, and the weeds in the field were covered with peas. Weeds are still growing wildly in the fields I hoed.
When I came back from the shower head on a moonlit night, the slender vegetation on the roadside turned into a melodious rain flute, as clear as nature. ...
In my north, in my south, in the flood hut in spring, welcome children, children are waiting for the door, and there are bottles.
The sky is vast, and it is the wind looking for chapters and sentences. As soon as I reached out, it was full of poems, as ancient as Nanshan and as far away as Nanshan. Go home, my home. ...
time goes by ...
Spend a life covered with straw in fog and rain.
There were many wild flowers on the mountain road, and I thanked them again. Flowers in the forest are always in a hurry.
It's another foggy spring. Thoughts fly with the rain, only memories, only melancholy and diligence. It rained last night and it was cold all day. ...
How sad is the lonely grave of a beautiful wife thousands of miles away? A thousand words of calling, but can't call back that haunting face; Sadness, joy and sadness finally became a mirage, which blurred my eyes in the swirl of falling red.
Acacia one inch, sad one foot, the court of the Northern Song Dynasty, lingering in the stormy, reminds me of Chibi, like blood setting sun.
The broken halberd of sinking sand whispers a long memory of blood, and the legend of a fire falls on the brown maple leaf. There is also the weak breath of the Northern Song Dynasty, and the scattered blood passes by with a faint red background.
Face covered with dust, temples like frost. Looking back on the bleak road, I am so lonely. "My temples fall, tears empty. Who would have thought of this? My heart is in Tianshan Mountain, and I am always in Cangzhou! "
The pain of my dead wife, the pain of my hometown ... but what can I do? I can only write a gloomy story in the pale history of the Northern Song Dynasty with white hair as my hair and muddy wine as my ink ―― life and death are endless, and grief is beyond words!
time goes by ...
A pipa, a glass of wine, a Nanshan, a poem ... I can't tell who is more brilliant, who will flourish in an instant and who will spread for longer. A long flute blew all over the Tang, Song, Yuan, Ming and Qing dynasties, and the poem was silent; The poet is drunk in front of the steed of poetry, which is the poet's initial and final destination and the poet's eternal spring.
Today, a thousand years later, there will be a me, looking for a spiritual home with the impulse of homesickness; Suddenly looking back, my home, in the book bound by the old book-the sand of the years has yellowed the pages, but those classics will never be annihilated. Shiny names will live forever in the time when the wind and sand are buried deep. I don't know which rainy night, I will be elated, and there will be classics sliding down the rain, singing again: I will drink it when I am old.
Oh, the poet's home, my home. ...