1 until another Tomb-Sweeping Day.
Sunshine or rainy season, flowers, body temperature, thoughts or tears, smiles are all delivered to distant feelings until another kind of attachment, companionship or whispering stands or faces memories or smiles, yearning for the past life until another cloud flies over or goes beyond walking or running, or follows the smiling back to pour out past dreams.
2. Under the loess
It's a foreign land with different surnames. I guess this must be Elysium. None of the people who went back closed their eyes and went in. Bypassing a black funeral, let some tears drift like paper dust and wind, and people on the loess can't remember it.
Like me, I can't believe my dear grandma is dead. I think she just went to live in a foreign land. Spinning, embroidery, save me something delicious. Take care of me from afar, bless me, pray and sing like a virgin.
3. "Sacrifice your soul"
The Day of the Dead, the whip of tears carnival, tribute fruits and incense sticks form a landscape. We walked past many rigid wooden shelves, and those souls crowded together as if they were warming each other. These souls are silent in their respective boxes, remembering the streets they passed, the people they met, and the love they couldn't get in their early years. Now their bodies have been sawed and carved.
Painting is different from listening to it before, and firecrackers are endless, like many people banging on the table with empty porcelain bowls in their hands. Another expression is that we throw emotional dice on the table and put them away to make the same sound. Oh, white ashes, the best morality. These souls no longer use words, actions or eyes. They have led a totally clean life and no longer welcome guests.
No longer lending some of their remaining breath is a short-lived memory. The cakes and fruits we brought today are really like a person doing all kinds of indirect things in a dream and eating rich fantasies in their eyes. This is that life can be touched by flames. Like birds, these souls have settled in a self-sufficient box, regardless of spring, summer, autumn and winter.
They began to regret that these imprisoned souls longed for the length of dust between heaven and earth, such as rain in the wind or light falling from trees. You see, light smoke is everywhere, and we see sincere nostalgia, which has become fog every year. On the steps, on the lawn, these boxes are worshipped by us.
Wiped away by tears, incense gradually burns to ashes like our sadness, and they are close to each other, as if warming those souls. We walked stiffly past many wooden shelves, and the scenery was full of whips, tributes and incense candles, forming a carnival of the Day of the Dead and tears.