Pastoral, found the voice of its dream.
blue sky
Sutian
sheep flock
green grass
And god.
They turn up at noon.
Those who listened carefully stood by a river that was about to turn.
He needs to tremble.
Be calm.
He needs wind and grass.
So that we can see the pastoral singer clearly.
2. Warm yourself with a poem.
Come on, find the word called Songchai in this poem.
With fragrant matches
Light up the darkness
Let the indoor light drive away the cold in the body.
Take off your coat, wind and frost, big and small.
You should be near the fireplace.
Corduroy is best close to the skin.
Let your silver bracelet burn when you look up at the lamp.
A poem, at night, becomes more and more beautiful.
In its depths, there will be the moon, Woods, flowers and grass.
And flowing springs.
In many beautiful words, dreaming, flying and talking nonsense.
We don't care about other scenery except spring.
3. In Pingyao
In Pingyao, the old dusk always appeared from the corner of an alley.
Sunset falls into the moat and lanterns are lit.
Whose shadow has stepped out of the footsteps of power on the slate street?
In Pingyao, the cornices of ancient archways like to draw an arc and fly high with the wind.
The city wall guards the night with a constant attitude.
It's just that the gate is empty, and I'm too lazy to distinguish between travelers and returnees.
In Pingyao, at midnight, there are old stories and new troubles.
Often overflows from the glass.
The moonlight was full, and someone sat in front of the Chenghuang Temple holding an old mulberry tree for a long time.
In Pingyao, peach blossoms are painted with a layer of unchanging pink and a charming third layer of paint.
The woman wearing embroidered shoes hangs her eyelashes and holds her heart.
Waiting in the lacquer ware, the rouge on her lips refused the disturbing smoke.
In Pingyao, whether the wooden door leading to the depths is open or closed, there is always a sigh.
This pure wood sound is full of memories and textures.
On the wall of the old city, the moon repeatedly cut by paper-cutters was in a daze in the sky of earthy cotton cloth.
A few insomnia bugs.
Sitting in the wind, with Pingyao accent, criticizing one by one, riding away.