I told you everything.
………
I am walking happily on the wandering road alone. In the vast world, I am no different from others.
But I know my blood drives me to wander. I saw the beauty that only I can see, so I chased and set out again and again.
………
Before I finish, I want to tell you how great I feel.
-Zhang Chengzhi: "Golden Ranch"
sun
From the edge of the ancient wild mountain plain, the ancient years are sadly torn apart. Strong colors, rolling burning flames, golden edges shining at the top of the flowers. The vigorous wings from the horizon covered the cracked land and dry pupils, and swept the dark and damp branches and leaves.
The sky, from where I feel a warm arm passing through.
You are a miracle of nine days and a totem of national history.
Scenes of tragic legends began to drift between the nest of the soul and the voyage of life, with no ending. Solidified in the blue sky over the fields, I peep at how many human joys and sorrows are longing for sadness and sorrow. From the first time we saw the wasteland, you staggered and painted our strong cry as thick as gold. Bronze back, bronze boat, bronze mountain, bronze chant. Shuttle through your endless flashing river in Wang Yang. You are full of unchanging human feelings. Break through the walls rusted by years and shine on exiled The Way.
We are in your palm, bearing the glory of loneliness.
The seeds of your life are sprayed wildly into the territory of vast expanse, sowing a large area of sunny hope.
Everything is creeping, becoming noble and mean. The vines of desire spread greedily in your space, crossing dams and gullies, drowning the stubborn heads of human beings and their homes. A series of vague cries suddenly fell from the flames surrounded by you. Since then, the sadness of falling dust has stifled the road of sunshine, and the sound of morning dew bathing has been blocked. In the dark, pale people were running around in dreamy raincoats. The days without love multiply rapidly, and the garden of poetry is full of weeds.
The earth flows into a river without sunshine.
You are a young and ancient elf, and you are the most eternal witness from a vast distance.
Time has passed. The sun climbed heavily on the furry roof, calling for sleeping thoughts. Darkness receded, and the flag of life spread in the sky, full of rich fragrant rice.
Your brilliant flame is still burning in the highlands of your soul.
Rock the Great Wall
Who tore open the door of life under the cold starlight and sang like a dry sand wind? Who has been lying on the top of the mountain for hundreds of millions of years? Who poured strong ink into the valley behind the Great Wall and drowned the history textbooks? Who attracted the far south to pounce on your clumsy bricks?
A rock youth wearing a red headscarf, like a shining beetle, is embedded in the steep tunnel of the Great Wall. )
Under the west wind and thin horse, with the momentum of lava, the broken plate supports the strange post station in history. On one side, uncut stones are calling, crowded and rushing towards the feet shaken by rock and roll. In chaos, bearded grass crawls intimately, and the ancient river bends and withers. You resist people's blind obedience driven by years, and rock the tired Great Wall in the spiritual paradise before dawn.
Sing all the way, sing all the way, rock the passion of life and issue a declaration of human anger. Standing on the altar in the north of China, shouting, shaking the mouth of the Great Wall, smoke scattered, sleepy birds flying out of the silent picture. The bison moved uneasily, holding the roaring black prestige of the Great Wall and knocking over the hoe and plow close to the soil. ...
In a trance, the twilight of the rock years. Rock and roll tears in the moonlight, and white flowers bloom lightly. The tragedy that dare not exaggerate, endured thousands of years of laughter and shared salty tears with the moonlight. Facing the long wall of silence, I can't smile. Float your blue arms and lift the fog of imprisonment. At the end of the century, the sun will hum like a homing pigeon, the earth will be bright, and the mountains will cry for the trembling clouds and colorful maple leaves. Hey? The tree of spirit is full of nirvana dance. There are cicadas on Wolong.
Locke wears an elegant red scarf on his head, winding around the Great Wall like a flowing stream. )
Your rock turns into thick mud, which is passed down by the world as enriching the active substances in the Great Wall. Your melody haunts the endless checkpoints of life on the Great Wall; Your lyrics are burning like a mysterious flame, and candles are shining in the high sky.
You are the menarche surging along the Great Wall, and you are the roaring rock.
You rock out a blood that has been passed down from generation to generation, crossing the fields and flowing smoothly in your home in China. ...
Flying in rainy season
A rainstorm sounds like a long sleepless night. The whirlwind beat the bananas outside the window. This sycamore tree is abrupt and steep. The boy in the rain plays the rustling saxophone.
The rainy season came as scheduled. A pedestrian hurried by. )
There is a calm ocean in your heart. Depression is melting into a long and violent storm bit by bit. You are staring at the vast night sky, and the overwhelming rain falls on the dark land and on the buds that break through the ground without cover.
Will that boy and saxophone in the rain get wet by loneliness? )
Spring, a short miss, leaves a boundary marker and a pure sigh. Involved in the endless rainy season, listening to the rain beating on the branches and leaves telling sad stories, watching the quiet peaks stand in unison. Ragged clothes drift in the wind, and you walk towards the untied boat with bare and thin shoulders.
When we enter the rainy season, we feel sad and gentle. )
Is that the rainy season we are waiting for and expecting? Is there a distant lover, listening to the sound of nature alone at this mysterious moment of everything, and then crossing the rainy season? Facing the hustle and bustle of the empty valley of life, we are eager to communicate intimately in the rainy season, calling our flying wings to fight against the gloomy confrontation in the rainy season. ...
We are eager to fly for the last time in the rainy season. )
The rainy season is endless, and there are many difficult footprints in the mud. The cry of pain makes the soul wander heavily in the virgin land. The newly stretched feather wings were wet with fluff, and saxophone described the broken theme intermittently in the wind and rain.
The quiet ocean was instantly broken, causing ripples. )
We don't want to wait for the arrangement of the clear sky, the disposition of fate, the passage of time and the empty joy of life. We want life to pass through waves and painted pottery like a tail fish under our control. ...
We spread our arms and flew to the other side of the rainy season. )
Childhood: Looking back at the scenery
On the river crossing in spring and summer, you flew the first colorful kite of your childhood, which made the blue sky a surprise discovery; In the snowy winter wilderness, let the lonely laughter have a sweet home; On the winding mountain road, you climb the winding path between pines and cypresses, stay away from the hubbub with scattered birds, and lean against the mountains in the sunset.
The setting sun of the long river soothes the loneliness of the mountains and rivers and the beginning of the wet experience. That's the fresh scenery that I still look back on as an adult. )
Father, standing majestically in the snow of memory. The wrinkles flowing on the forehead stand the eternal love of the years, and fluffy snowflakes perch on the shoulders. The figure as wide as the old wall moves, like a mature crop in late autumn. Mother's words, like a string of red peppers, hang warmly under the low eaves and sway with the wind. It just got out of its infancy and fled happily from the humble hut. The smoke left by the shotgun tracks my father's rough hands ... My father's silent feet guide the way of life.
When the birds' cries shed the dawn, my father was finally buried quietly in the lush forest. The pine and cypress on the slope became a standing monument. )
The hill of life suddenly collapsed and the happy scene disappeared. The kite curled up and hid in a web full of spiders. You dragged a slender shadow in the alley of your childhood, and the wind and waves blew away the warmth of your skin. Weak soul, recalling last night's dream, faint spasm.
Childhood songs can't tie the curved red moon to the cradle? )
The source of life journey, spread out in the hometown of childhood. Leave the native red pepper and bid farewell to the epitaph of Manpo. If you open a window, you will never be able to lock the bitterness in the distance. Open your heart in the sun and burn your throbbing faith. The low hut condensed into a clear image of the world.
A few years later, this landscape was beautifully collected and displayed in the Museum of Humanity. )
You sail the lonely sail of life, bid farewell to the hotbed of mountains and rivers you have stayed in, and look for the landscape of mankind. You crawl the Gobi in the cruel sunshine, listening to the faint camel bell repeating the monotonous voice drily. After you were disappointed and sad, you generously accepted the rewards of suffering and premature life. You walk out of nursery rhymes, out of watercolor scenery and out of the shelter of the red moon.
In the sky of childhood, you will once again create a remarkable landscape. )