Cicada in July
In the thick leaves
Louder than in June.
Such a hot summer
Cicada's trick
Is to hide
The cicada's cry
Let go of the dreariness of summer
Release bit by bit
The cultivators are cleaning up in the ravine.
Mature crops
Sweat soaked the clothes.
This is a harvest season.
Farmers are in rice fields.
Take the time to deliver food.
I forgot to wipe the sweat off my forehead.
Harvest crops and seeds in the double harvest season
Grain return to warehouse
Xia Chan.
When the hot summer comes,
Your singing comes with the heat,
Fill this summer with your voice,
Decorate with a short journey.
When the scorching sun devours the earth,
It's time for you to sing,
The hotter the weather, the louder your song will be.
Just for this short life,
When the breeze brings a hint of coolness,
Your voice began to tremble,
Getting smaller and smaller,
Because this summer is coming to an end.
About a cicada
Dear,
Come and sit down. Let's talk.
About a cicada
We don't talk about its wings.
So are its smooth and bright wings.
Thin, too thin to hold.
My heart is full, and a piece of paper is transparent.
There is no connotation at all.
Everything is clear at a glance.
We don't talk about its life.
Its life is too short.
We haven't had time to be quiet for a while.
Appreciation, not tenderness.
Alas, I haven't felt the tears yet.
Pain, all the time.
Blown dry by wind
Let's talk about it
Underground covert operation time, right?
Three years? Or seventeen years?
Long wait
Poverty and loneliness
A cicada
Loud cicada chirping
Bright cicada
In the dark night
Lonely and ordinary
We talk about it.
This cicada
Drink a glass of water.
Warm your hands.