A night of heavy snow reappears everything in the world. The world has become a white palace. Crow white, dog white, black coal white. The tomb has also turned white, and the raised piles no longer make people feel desolate, but look beautiful and meaningful. The quiet arc and slightly upturned posture make people feel that the land has the desire to stand up at any time. The falling and thickening snow makes it look like a bird lying on its back. It is combing and spreading its white wings, and it will fly to a mysterious direction at any time. Snow fell on the ground, on rocks, on branches, on the roof and in the expected place. Snow is taking care of the dry land and our dry life. Snow fell all over our field of vision. Finally, the snow fell on the snow, the snow was still falling, the snow was moved and intoxicated by its whiteness, the snow fell in its arms, and the snow fell asleep in its arms. Walking in the snow, we stopped talking. Snow spreads language in the sky, telling the ancient language. The snow in the sky is also the snow on the ground. There is no boundary between the sky and the ground. We are people on earth and gods in heaven. The snow in the Tang Dynasty has not melted so far and will never melt. The thickest snow is preserved in poetry. The snow that fell in my hand melted, reminding me of the love handed down from generation to generation. I really want to go to the clouds to see how this hexagonal flower is pushed away by the cold. What was her expression at the moment she spoke? Did she fall vertically or obliquely? Is she dizzy and scared when she walks down from such a steep and high sky? From water to fog, from fog to flowers, this life-and-death process, this touching miracle! The weak and great spirit came to the world of mortals after a long journey. This one and the other fell on my eyelashes, and there are many others. Were your previous lives my tears? You found my eyes and you want to give them back. You have melted into my tears, and they are still my tears. Nothing will die except birth. Jingweihai is still brewing salt for us, and the wine glass is still Li Bai's wine, Li Bai's moon. As always, the river pushes ancient stones, and we can find the same handwriting on any stone. Last year or a long time ago, I collected the well water of your figure and mine. Look up, every snow is dropping the information you gave me. The unknown snowman you created in the distant wilderness is me in the afterlife ... I dare not look at the snow. All I see are homeless and pure souls. I closed my eyes and sat in the snow, quietly listening to the sound of snow, quietly listening to my own voice, snow fell on my side, snow took me, I became snow, nothing but snow, the universe became snow. ...
The only day when God is not needed is when it snows. Heaven and earth are white churches, white worships white and white praises white. You don't need a savior, white liberates all the fallen colors. No need for an enlightener. Bai has enlightened and answered everything, and Bai's language tells the most solemn touch of the soul. There are always bright candles on the top of the highest mountain. I can vaguely see that there are higher peaks in the distance from the top of the mountain. Higher peaks are still snow, and they are still great snow peaks that we can never climb. In the days without God, I saw more signs of God. All distances seen by spiritual eyes are sacred distances, waiting for us to arrive. When we arrived, we really found ourselves, so we set off again.
The only day when you don't need love is when it snows. So many white scarves float to you, you don't know which one to cherish. Such ethereal gestures, such soft words, such pure promises. I don't care about the love from heaven, and I don't care about the love from the road. This reminds me of those daughters who have been made of water through the ages, all for love, from scratch and from scratch. They came and transformed the low hut into a simple paradise. The cold wind and the swishing canyon filled with tenderness and turned into a quiet corridor. They are gone, they are running on the sea, calling our names and village names in the waves, roaming in the clouds and looking after our lives in the high sky. They are our atmosphere, rain and snow. The only time you don't need to write poetry is when it snows. There are pure poems floating in the air and scattered on the ground. The tree's pen is quietly held. It wanted to write a poem, but it was moved by it. I don't know what it was. So I stood quietly in the snow, standing in the poem, as if to say: pen is redundant, in front of the pure poem of the universe, there are no poets, only people who read poems; Those who don't read poetry, only poetry; In fact, there is no poetry, only snow, only endless tranquility and endless innocence. ...........