Text/Favorites:
◎ Wet, Wen/Mei Shenghua.
The real body is hidden in a cloud, and the sea is your broad voice.
In fact, you are closer to a drop of dew, which falls between the stems of mosaic grass or lower in the world.
So low that an ant can smell your breath, you will wet a pair of grateful eyes.
Some faint water sounds lead the greenery and go deep into the grassland inch by inch.
Jing Hu, Wen/Liu Chang.
The water has been washed away, even the sound has been washed away, and the branches are swaying on the shore.
The city was still and washed, and another storm was suppressed in the solemn ceremony.
The water level of the lake is like a mirror, so some substances are stubborn.
Nothing can be melted, including the singing of birds. Reason reflects the opposite of the sky.
◎ Between rape field and wheat field, the text/.
Rape fields and wheat fields are closely linked. Grouting is everywhere.
Sick seeds are everywhere.
Yellow, green, white and gray.
I saw their innocent eyes.
An indelible dream, hidden in the flowers.
A feather is not bright enough.
Half-open and half-closed consciousness, the forehead was cold.
Cover up crying and show signs of maturity.
Ears will leave the earth soon, and body and mind will return to the warehouse.
The wind is nearby, quietly.
When you are near me, I think.
It must have fallen in love with my hidden body temperature.
I don't love or hate blandness, and I am at arm's length.
Attitude. It leans in the same direction as me.
Between the rape field and the wheat field.
Give a faint brand to the entanglement of time.
I am as beautiful as a butterfly.
◎ Wen/Li.
I have been to many border areas, Kashgar, a small town in the west.
A small town in Manzhouli, Miao Village, Xiangxi.
There are Jingbian in northern Shaanxi and Zhaotong in Yunnan.
These different dynasties have different customs.
Now scattered on the edge of the desert, or hidden in the mountains and forests.
Are lonely corners, quietly content with the forgotten fate.
I miss these big or small borders most.
It's the red, white and wild flowers that are not desolate in those desolate places.
◎ Knock out the rice grains on the ground and write/Lin Jinzhou.
The sky is also maturing. When the meal is quiet.
Line up and squeeze into the bare stomach of the village.
When you hold your arms high.
When you, bend down-this is my common honor.
Ceremony. In the distant childhood.
A clear symphony. Facing the loess.
Ears of wheat, like my ancestors.
In their own way.
Knock out the earth and walk into our eyes.
Become the eternity of pain and heartache ...
◎ childhood friends, text/clear lotus bell.
Those classic landscapes are getting farther and farther away from us.
By the reed river, I cried sadly with the strong wind.
White clouds are falling, telling me to live by the water.
I spent a thousand years watching the fire on the other side.
Still a beautiful bird by the river.
I looked at my nest and watched the bodhi blossom and fall.
The years flow longer and longer with the river.
A thin layer of paper, punctured, is the bridge.
It is a small bridge from the ancient city to the ancient town.
Snow-white camellia illuminates my sadness on the bridge.
Because of you, because of the collision between skin and youth at the bottom of the well.
I maintain inner peace and tranquility.
Hold the fire of a lifetime.
Because of you, I held a childhood sweetheart in my last life.
I will follow this river in my next life.
See you ride home on a bamboo horse.
◎ alive, Wen/July sea.
Another round of moonlight, I flew back alone.
Fly into my body, and I stretch out my rattan-like arms from my dream.
Hug yourself, give her berries, give her honey.
I greeted it with the voice of a bronze parrot.
My other, I am prone on the ground, with a pair of happy ears.
Touching the sound of spring water, I just want to live happily like this.
Hold the root, hold my ten thousand children in Qian Qian.
◎ Warm, Wen/Zang Limin.
Others patiently use these old utensils to create joy.
The charcoal in the old stove has endless brightness and warmth.
The black blasting machine turned and turned on the fire.
The ancient bellows, with small tongue, breathe the wind in early summer.
At this dusk, there are still people in the street, and no one is watching.
The foreigner in a gray coat and hat seems to be immersed in a dream, creating a quaint joy.
The locust tree on the roadside sank deeper in the dusk, and the man knew nothing.
His face was flushed with flying flames and gradually surrounded by thick night.