-To Mr. Yang Tao.
Hold the prayer tube and raise the prayer flag.
Go home, go home ... whether the memory is white.
It's still dark, and your mountains and rivers are bitter or happy.
Cuckoo, wake up to the sound of bamboo flute in childhood.
Tell the pain of growing up
Curved pipe, wind and rain around for decades.
Dozens of layers of dusk, constantly turning.
One lap, two laps, n laps.
The prayer flags in Potala Palace awakened your poem.
Your horse, your plateau
From the clouds in Lhasa, from the source of the Yangtze River.
All the way south, east ... Sichuan, Dazhou.
The lingering local accent in my dream
Waiting for you to go home in May. Some branches
Refuse to sprout. A sentence floating in the state river
It is a sorghum field that has collapsed in the years.
Your unchanging dialect is on the Phoenix Mountain.
Who writes about cooking smoke?
Blue book of pain
-To Frank
I have spent my whole life on this blue paper.
You row regularly: one, two, three, four, five.
Point, horizontal, vertical and left. A paper-like life
Can't catch a hanging horse
Writing is all failure, all broken words.
It's no use shouting or raising your hand.
The knight is not you, and the saddle is not you
Advance is life, retreat is life.
Chew the grass of the years and polish the stomach of the years.
Think again, think again, think again. ......
A lot of water and wind, all disappeared.
I said, you will live for five thousand years.
Will last until 10 thousand.
The boat on the river bank is empty and full of you.
A lifetime of pain
Your ribs in the book of songs have been hit with a stone of compassion.
The grasslands and planetesimals in the distance are indifferent.
A pair of blue cloth shoes, wandering with a wisp of solitary smoke.
Sunny days are trouble, rainy days are sadness.
The misty rain is boundless, which is your freehand brushwork.
If you are poor, you will think about change, and if you are happy, you will be sad.
Those tired lightning
Walking in Century Square, calling for mother.
Trembling all over the world and endless sadness
You hollowed out the dictionary.
-To Deng Chengbin.
The days of carrying mud and tiles
Take the pulse "point the soldier mountain"
I made several turns from Monument River to Zhouhe River.
Bypass a few beams. Stop it.
How far is that? Only your pen tip can measure it.
You stood on the Daba Mountain and pointed out the maze.
Exciting words. You told me all about the old vines.
Seven aunts and eight aunts, you said it.
Even the banana trees near the old house are dying.
Because you have become a genius. That's not enough.
Your pen is in love with the keys of the city people again.
The wind and rain of urban people
No matter how black and white are reversed, you
Immersed in pen and ink, one song after another
Chorus. You hollowed out the dictionary.
That's not enough! You, unexpectedly ran to Jialing River again.
The sound of rowing. The ship is crowded.
Crowded footprints
I'm from Dazhou, too, haha,