Holding mud legs, squatting at the entrance of the village.
The old farmer's pipe echoed with brilliant flowers in his memory.
This is a golden butterfly.
Wild rose, falling on the earth wall in the yard, is climbing.
Warm wind blows gently.
The old farmer's smile drifted into the flowers, and a flower was blooming.
The painting that the old farmer remembered.
The sound of wheels with axle ramps on the back of cattle.
Sweet wheat fields, cuckoo's poetic throat
Read well. Quiet and peaceful. Tugen has literary talent.
From the Book of Songs, from the pastoral world.
The gurgling stream around the village is fishing with the idea that everything in heaven has flowed for thousands of years.
I think of a simple bright flower.
Laozi: Confucius, Mencius and Zhuangzi are still here.
I am looking for their profound understanding. I am not afraid of the dark wind, evil forces and greed, which will devour my vision and poetic fantasy world.
But I, in the village of spirit and soul.
Still the coolness of Bodhi, I miss the lotus under the Buddha lamp.
The wind in May is blowing gently.
Blow away my crying thoughts, loneliness and sadness. Later, it was written into the "Mud Fragrance of Grassroots".