Li Ying's Poetic Cricket

"Cricket" (Li Ying) After a tiring sleep in the postpartum field, the noisy autumn sound has faded away from the night, leaving only the thinnest notes stubbornly instead of oil lamps, jumping in the depths of autumn, night and dream. Timid people have no home. Crickets without warm clothes are hiding in the corner of my yard, struggling to shake their wings, like the reddest wire drawn from the deepest part of life, trembling in the frosty wind of fallen leaves. Is it the screaming white dew, or the frost flower I caught from the bean sprouts when I was a child? I kept it in a clay pot and scratched its long beard. Now, my childhood is long gone. My lonely cry, like knocking on the door that I will never open, shook me for sixty stormy years. The distance between sixty years and today is only a few meters, but I can't go back to the depths of autumn, night and dream. A trace of sad and slender crying, like an echo from a distance, stirred waves in my heart.