I put the past in the wind.
I moved my hometown to my heart.
Far away, my relatives set up a banquet.
The stars and moonlight are separated by thick loess and coffins.
I talk to my parents, and I exchange my thoughts with my relatives.
I told my mother that weeds grow a little crazy.
I told my father about his rheumatism.
I found a prescription that can be treated.
I told my little brother that on the way outside the village.
There are countless vehicles, one after another.
From east to west. I want to tell my relatives most.
It's the village where I lived, and now
I can't go back, those weeds are overgrown. Courtyard.
There are only a few western Western jackdaw, and their cries spread everywhere.
I've been thinking, whose daughter am I
Whose bosom friend am I and where is my hometown?
The story of who I am in the wind
The road home is full of thorns.
The mountain is still far away, and the rivers and lakes are still drowned by the local accent.
Straw house, stone mill and snow in my mind
And the troubles left by the years.
A bag full of sadness is also full of moonlight.
Ponds, frogs, kitchen smoke, and childhood.
A high voice, a low voice, familiar breathing.
I haven't written a poem these days. I tried my best.
Pull yourself out of the local accent bit by bit.
Find a safe place to bury it.