Author/Li Chenglong
one
When I meet a pen, my thoughts grow like weeds in summer.
My hands can't catch up with wanton emotions. It is a runaway wild horse, running wildly on the poetic grassland, splashing a circle of game.
Who calls my soul at dawn?
Who knocks my thoughts in the melancholy evening?
Who tore up my poem in the dark midnight?
The beauty I have stored in the spinal cord and the feelings I cherish between my ribs are all shaking uneasily. I seem to hear the sound of the pastoral flute in the distance, and my steps follow the melodious pastoral. Those beautiful images jump along the nerves, flow along the blood, and flow out bit by bit along my cut finger.
Convergence, convergence into a group of galloping horses; Gather into a group of galloping poems; Gather into a group of grazing poets.
From my body to the page, from my page to life, chasing flute from my life.
I sat under the desk lamp, but my poem and my heart had already been scratched by the grassland.
two
The strong wind thinned a crop of fat and tender summer grass, and I was born in this bleak season. Cold grasslands, fishy grass, wolves howling. This is not my ideal birthplace, this is not my ideal poem Eden. My heart is shaking. I opened my eyes and ran wildly, turning the sweat all the way into a poem.
I don't want to be born, but I have to be born; I don't want to grow up, but I must grow up. The cold wind is urging, the wolves are urging, and the whip of the herdsmen is urging.
I am a wild horse, and the grassland has created my wild bones; I'm not a wild horse. Fate fills me with poetry. The frenzied hooves step on the beautiful rhythm of autumn, and the thick mane dresses up the pure white passion of winter.
It's dark at night and I'm still chasing the sun.
Pursuit, pursuit of dawn, pursuit of quiet poetry.
However, the herdsmen's harness tightly locked my unruly, bloody whip whipped my soul. I am struggling, poetry is struggling, and freedom is struggling.
The shepherd's whip tore my wound and my blood gurgled out. My heart has been frozen in the cold wind, but my poems are still on the grassland. Perhaps, soon; Maybe, for a long time. The whole grassland will melt, grow a poetic feeling and grow thickly in the wind.
three
I have a dream to ride a horse with a whip on the grassland;
I have a dream that I will write at my desk and stop wandering;
I have a dream to take poetry as a horse and graze for life.
Gansu province Jingning No.1 high school youth literature club
Instructor: Li Xinping