Can't turn blue, think of Ai Qing, mottled color.
Tall shrubs, leaves spreading in the sky.
Those villages bowed their heads and accepted the favor of poetry.
The magnificent curtain is exciting and everywhere.
Embrace the birth of the red regime
I am sad to think of Ai Qing's nanny, Da Yanhe.
The wheat in the village rolls like air.
Water spinach, reeds, waving on the mountain.
The birth of poets is like those faint particles.
Sobbing in the water, following the wind speed, reaching the sky.
You must see the sun and the light.
Seeing the sun burn your skin.
Countless windows are like human ears.
You pricked up your ears and heard a small sound.
There are ten thousand kinds of tenderness, which can be calmed down
You must have met the woman who painted plum blossoms.
Watch an endless feast
I heard what I didn't say.
Green, withered and incomplete.
Love or embarrassment, existence or nothingness
You are a poet, and you are standing in the river.
I stood on the roof of Hepo Old Street and looked at you.
When you see me, don't laugh and close your eyes slightly.
Countless peach blossoms bury you and me.