In the countryside
I want to write about her willow by the river.
Write about her bending over in the vegetable field.
Write down the small bench in her hallway,
Her duck.
Country,
Like a donkey,
A rope left it on the stump,
Wagging his tail.
In its eyes,
Frost of all things,
How well you digest,
Honest, silent and gentle ...
winter
In winter, a duckling is on the lake.
Crying lonely and immature
I also sat on the cold stone bench,
Looking at the lake alone, immature.
If we knew that we were two sheep,
On the way to the massacre,
I will cry, and so will you.
In this floating world.
grieved
Nothing can turn me into the Ganges,
Can calm this ancient death,
Can remove the moisture of a dynasty,
I think of Plato and seneca's speeches.
Confucius' lobbying, Laozi's silence,
I think of the lecture hall at dusk and the pure temple.
The silence of a sword is like the silence of a hymn.
Death, love and time have all become.
One question after another, but not the last,
I think of the silence of dawn and the perfection of sunset.
No words, really pure.
No job can make me forget the night,
Forget my stupidity and my noisy life.
Love between life and death
Life after death
This is his living memory—
Long after his death,
The mirror he uses can talk,
He sat in a chair and muttered:
Even the path is remembering his steps.
Outside the window,
The slow flute and the slow sunset,
This is his usual tone.
The life of a living person,
This is the memory of the dead—
After a long time,
The tone, movements of the living,
Like a dead man.
In a floating world
Wild ducks are in the air.
Shouted huskily and monotonously
"Ah, ah"
How much like us,
Although it is peaceful to walk and sit with your face,
But there is always a feeling in my heart.
A faint omen,
Hazy fear ...
dusk
The horse kicked the stump in the hut,
Fish jump in the basket,
The dog barked in the yard,
How much they cherish themselves,
But this is the source of pain,
As clear as the moon,
Run like a river ...
Keel
Why do you make life so rigid?
You don't even have the comfort of a small wooden boat,
Not even a tree,
Such as willow, elm and camphor trees,
It changes naturally all year round,
throughout the year
Everything is wonderful.
Why did you connect these trees,
Not even a small wooden boat!
pleasant surprise
The butterfly on the rape flower surprised me.
They flew away a little, and then they flew back,
The brief and deadly fragrance of flowers,
For a little happiness.
You can ruin everything like us.
neglect
The light is on,
But that's not a million lights.
That's his guilt for her,
This is also her guilt for him.
That's the guilt of their desire, which is hard to calm down.
That's a dog's sin,
Wagging his tail.
That's also the guilt of cattle,
Walking in the fields at dusk next to the whip.
It rusted in the yard.
The iron pipe of guilt, dripping with water,
Like the bell tongue of a temple on the mountain,
Knocking on the silent night with a thousand lights.