, where
the sense of direction has always been poor.
sleepy, heavy backpack
I think of the distant poem
even farther than yesterday
"The glass is clear, the oranges are brilliant"
At noon in late autumn, there is not much coolness
Passing a stone arch bridge
It seems that the water is not flowing
It is not clear, and there is no rippling fish wave.
We refuse to steal
poisoned water mixed with Taomi water
and we can still feed some fish
The wind is a little sweet, but it seems that we haven't woken up yet
The willows are not reluctant enough, and there are no egrets wrapped in their pockets
The swing creaks and waits for a good dream
I took a picture, and the quiet wooden bridge
waited for a gust of wind.
A few hawthorn trees on guard didn't give me the blessing I expected.
The farewell western bamboo forest can't take away the hunger.
We don't have dark circles.
The calligraphy and painting on the wall, if you skip it in a hurry, you won't taste it. That wisp of fragrant rice
has been looking forward to it, and you know that it's only the feeling of infatuation with expectation
that disappointment is really worth remembering!
There is no coffee shop around the corner.
There is a fishy lake. I still remember those willow trees
rushing through other people's lives
missing the strange back garden.
A deserted fork in the road, lost at the end of the poplar
An empty temple, no incense burning, no prayer
Bodhi without a mirror, the sun is fading
The fruit without greed is not yet ripe
Waiting for a rain, sweeping away the dust.
the calm lake surface, the autumn water that looks through
the yellow reeds greet the three suns
waiting for the calm
that can't be broken by throwing a few stones
, and there is no response.
I promised you to see the sea, but I went up the mountain
the stone steps wet with dew
I heard of mountains, lakes and seas
Lonely hilltops, and there was no salty wind
The brilliance of oranges drowned the tide
It was like the tired afterglow of the sunset.