1995 What's the story of Cinnamomum camphora and unknown Cinnamomum camphora in summer? Someone whispered in the cracks looking up and looking down. So everything becomes very subtle. Warm eyes and wet palms. In those summer when the sky is in full bloom, the sunshine has the most prosperous jointing. She ran past him in a hurry, so the floating grass blossomed; He waited quietly behind her, so the sunset closed the heavy door; He and he became more and more silent in the four seasons, the past dusk and the morning that didn't come. In summer, she and she walk more and more slowly, and the pulled hand holds the hand that has not been pulled. Some melodies have never been sung, some torches have never been lit, but the world is full of sound and light. So time became heavy and small, and the snowstorm easily broke the thin door. That city has never aged, it stands in memory and becomes the loneliness and loneliness left by no one at school in the evening. Camphor trees cover all the sky in the city from beginning to end. There is a confession ten years late in the shadow. Oh, I am singing. Did you hear that? Ah ah, who is singing? I heard you. 1996 the colorful Polaris on the summer solstice rushes to the upper dike when the tide is high, and summer connects the next summer. What do you like? When the heavy rain swept through the sunny village, summer flooded the next summer. What about you? Skipping green spring, sad autumn and honeysuckle and greener summer next year, you appear in front of me again. Eyebrows droop. Turn around and take away the rain of a whole city, and then turn around and bring back colorful snow. The thunder of wheat jointing rumbled through the earth. You splashed ink on the broken words in the corner, so you rendered a summer without ups and downs. Come next year. Next year. But I haven't waited for a crying summer solstice. A summer solstice that never comes all year round. Avoid round-trip search. He has never seen her. She has never seen him. No one has seen it. Never been here in summer solstice. The world began to rain cats and dogs. The flood season is coming. 1997 swallowtail butterfly not seen ten years ago from summer solstice. Whether we will never meet again. Those foggy and noisy years in every corner of the city. The reeds germinate in turn and then die gradually. The wings hastily covered the sky. There is nothing more to say. Cast the shadow of the tide along the road. Black hair dyed white. The snow was dyed black. Dyed black during the day. The night was dyed white. The world is upside down, left and right, up and down, black and white. So I became your reflection. Always live in a completely different world from you. Buried the twilight of the morning. Buried a group of gorgeous swallowtail butterflies. You are my dream. 1998 summer solstice, warm fog, when it breaks, it turns into red morning fog, and day and night are gradually divided equally. I started my lonely years in the world you have long forgotten, closing my eyes, covering my ears and cheering with tears. If I can't see you, I can't see the whole world. Darkness engulfed tens of billions of planets like the tide. Sunflowers are dying on a large scale. Migratory birds were sent to the funeral in droves. One by one, there is no heavy voyage in sight. Who waved with a straight face and then isolated from the world. What is silent is your disappointment. And your pale side face. In fact, the world will never wake up. It sleeps quietly under the collar of your shirt. In the blink of an eye. The beard instantly pierced the skin. Youth holds high the banner of hunting the wind. It turns out that you have grown up and become the crowned king, but I am at a loss to think that you are still a pale little prince. They say that as long as there is a little prince in the world, there will always be foxes waiting for love. When the swallows come back in a hurry with green in their hands next year, will you bow your head under the camphor tree like the summer when you were seventeen, and then meet me in that long, psychedelic and endless summer? 1998 The sunny world of summer solstice shines when it is in generate, shining with once faint youth and years separated from each other. Iris gradually climbed up all the hillsides and watched the arrival of Black Poetry. Those circulated poems sang legends, those who sang legends in legends, and those who raised countless journeys in countless eyes. Mixed with youth and happy past, the path is unknown and the way is unknown. Only when the years return along the road do wizards paint with bright gold paint and silver powder. So the once dumb years gave birth to roaring arrows in the forest, and the once dark clothes instantly glowed with crescent-like white light. You were handsome and handsome when you were young, and you returned to the pure white of seventeen years after years of silence and kindness. I was once lonely and became no longer lonely. This world is a happy playground in your hands, and no one can close it except you. So the sky is gorgeous, reeds linger, and you appear at the fork in the road, with Zhang Mingliang's face and white hair, just like the summer when the summer solstice was lost many years ago. 1998 summer solstice clouds, phoenix flowers, flowers recorded by clouds and clouds decorated with flowers have become the dry season of the wasteland in this endless summer. Zebras and antelopes migrate in swarms of sand dunes, and silent floating grass jointing on the water every year. All the creatures left behind were marked with bright red by the last season's phoenix flower. Ten years later, we met in the vast sea of people. Who said that the people who left, what they left behind, will come back one day, take the road they walked, sing the songs they sang, love those who loved, but can't afford to hate them anymore. Those legends travel around the world, dressed in sunset clouds like the proudest heroes. Those dark gods who led people to break through the tragedy died on the dry river bed before the next rainy season. Reed burned to ashes and spread to the blue sky. In 2002, the horizon broken by the summer solstice, drowning and ukiyo-e painting was folded into eternity by the crust. The boots left by the poets in the mountains were soaked by dew before sunrise. The years that come and go reveal unprinted chapters. Repeatedly reluctant to leave in the morning light, and a bright future. The lying body blooms in all seasons, and the body grows skin and melts into the mountains and rivers. The road you walked many years ago is now full of sad lakes, and the plateau you climbed many years ago is now sleeping in the depths of the earth's crust. The stories of those times were all folded into one chapter. Time flies and summer is over. People who plant flowers become people who look at flowers, and people who look at flowers become people who bury flowers. And that wasteland has become an oasis, which makes me unable to rejoice. Only your sadness or happiness can make the air sound like rain playing the keys. In the dark valley, re-polish the flashing lights. Those quiet secret jungles have been covered with layers of fallen leaves for thousands of years. Pearls flowing under fallen leaves. It was your blindness many years ago. The hurried return of the Liulan Cherry Blossom Festival from summer to Sunday in 2002 disrupted the migration of birds. The world is dark for a moment, and then everywhere for a moment. The faceless god in the sky sang an elegy arm in arm. Thunder deep in the clouds threw the fire all over the sky. Only the original shepherd boy is left. He still stood quietly in the depths of the forest, standing on the hill and playing with a flute for a long time at dusk. We cry or laugh, get up or sit, and it is bright or dark in the middle of the night. Those silk threads of fate emit cold white light. No matter how far you look, you can't see the end of the silk thread Who is the poor puppet? And you, with beautiful spring scenery, reappeared, casually planted a thousand summers, a thousand flowers, a thousand lakes, a thousand marshes full of reeds, singing forgiveness songs, and then, then, the world recovered its original peace. Flowers and plants repeat the cycle of the four seasons, and the sun begins to rise and fall again. No one remembers who is the priest and who is the singer who sings this poem. The solstice in the summer of 2003, the vortex and the light of the end, those discrete years, returned to the side. Those dim lights, tangled hearts. The past that has passed away is harvested again in the wheat field. Anger at the sun and resentment at the jointing stage also thrived. Those unknown hatred and vague love have all awakened in this postponed but finally arrived summer. The sky is gone, and the clouds are moving silently, bringing the news of the return of the monsoon. Who kissed his face silently many years ago? Those lanterns blown by the wind and yellow white paper can't stick the light needed in the dark. Who can lend me a pair of sharp eyes to light up the dark and long road ahead? Who can lend me wings, who can take me soaring. From the summer of 2003 to the summer of 2003, a whole piece of flowers was scattered in the memory of reed short pine hillock. All the songs lost their notes in an instant, and the world lost its hearing. All the colors faded in an instant, and the world lost its vision. And you're still standing in the quiet black and white reflection. Those years when they left in a hurry came back. But you ran away in a hurry and disappeared into my world. Are those legends they are talking about about you? Did they tell you those stories? Are the tears and years recalled under the shadow of camphor trees young and impulsive? At the end of summer from 2005 to 2005, what we thought happened never happened to the people we thought we loved, but they loved us forever.
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