The sky with alternating seasons is full of autumn. I seem to be able to count all the stars in this autumn night without any worries. The two stars engraved on my heart are countless now, because the morning light is coming. Because there is still night tomorrow night, because my youth has not burned out. A star is memory, a star is love, a star is loneliness, a star is longing, a star is poetry, and a star is mom, mom.
Mom, I gave each star a beautiful name, including the names of children at the same table in primary schools, foreign girls such as Pei, Jing and Yu, girls who have become mothers, poor neighbors, pigeons, puppies, rabbits, mules, deer and "Francis". Jam ","Lai Na. Maria? Rilke "The names of these poets. Are out of reach. As far away as the evening star, mom, and you are in the distant North Island.
I miss everything, write my name on this starry hillside, and then bury it with mud. Those insects that sing all night are sad for the name of shame. If the cold passes, spring will be close to my star, just like the grass on the grave, and the grass will proudly grow thick on the hillside engraved with my name.
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