Now, the sun outside the window has set. Outside my window. The sun is like a big clock, red and dripping with blood. People who are in love are in love, and people who are not in love are still alive. What about you? Are you in love? You smile in the sun. Plant wheat fields in heaven. Love your four sisters. Bury your beloved Asian copper. All the time in your world is the sun. Bright and dazzling. From the Eastern Hemisphere to the Western Hemisphere. You drink at the top of the pyramid. Kissing the muse in a Greek temple. Lead the beautiful cangniu on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau to the moon-shaped mountain peak. Behind you are your daughter and son. Your shadow 1989. Was it twenty years ago?
Is the Pacific Ocean still that Pacific Ocean?
I saw your book in the bookstore. Just like a Haizi attracts another Haizi. Many Haizi came back to life at that moment. Then, I piled the books and DVDs high and covered the window. Like Qinghai-Tibet Plateau. I am not Haizi who is obsessed with death. I like spring, summer and autumn. Love the little yellow light in my village. There is a red recliner in it, leaning against a book. I have piles of DVDs. Television, books, and, lonely and bright future.
Did I fall asleep that night when you walked from the ladder to heaven and the sun? Does anyone have a birthday? Are girls and boys kissing? The world cleaned up the scene for you. You start to climb quietly and slowly. Like a sea blue, it slowly rises to the night sky. That night, I slept very restlessly, and almost at the same time, I added bones. I dreamed of Xiaohua Mall. Also, the doll's face and the handsome monitor. The faucet in the kitchen is dripping. This book is full of fragrance. It smells like a mess. I am sleeping peacefully. Green Apple Paradise has just been completed. The boys are blooming on the wall. Quilts are beautiful virgins who never grow old. I'm beginning to sprout. Hair becomes leaves, and arms become trunks. Wrap my beautiful leaves around your harp and tremble. It's the girl you love
Is your loneliness my loneliness? Your loneliness comes first, and mine comes last. I grew up alone in my Changping. You set an example. Without your poems, Wuhan is another Changping. That school. That block. Those vendors and tramps who sell jeans. Hair salons and hardware stores on the street are unattractive. Writers grew up here. Inspiration knocks with frogs in the middle of the night. You make a pot of tea and talk silently. I am in my Taipei, listening to the light rain in winter.
You are Haizi in the sixties. I am another lake grassland in the 1970s. Beautiful and exquisite strait. We are crazy about Hong Kong and the olive trees. We don't have today and hazy. There are no wheat fields and goddesses. We studied one country, two systems in politics class, practiced kissing goodbye in karaoke and were at a loss in the Norwegian forest. However, it ushered in the late stage of Phoenix Border Town and a furnace of elegant agarwood chips. We don't wear glasses and read poems. Look for our wheat fields and grasslands in LOMO cameras and online shopping. Write modern epics on the red carpet of film festivals and cafes.
Look at your poem tonight. A clumsy and lovely teenager who laughs like a leopard. Fragile and rare. Your poem is your face, your figure and your every move. It's all yours. Take good care of it. It is your thousand-year-old fossil carved on this earth. Ancient. Fresh. Like thousands of small animals running in shiny fur. Hold high like a stubborn and paranoid thin head.
Tonight's poem is another kind of juice, another kind of tea, another movie, another trip. It was a ghost who showed me around his lonely and gorgeous castle. Chatting silently and excitedly. Stuttering from time to time. The face turned red.