Text/Tumbler (Gansu)
Yeah, a man who has been in a medicine jar all his life.
Maybe that's what it should be.
Maybe it's all meant to be.
Because he is very ill.
I can't tell the four seasons apart.
I often think of others as you
Who can give me a magic medicine?
Forget the winter when the bad news came.
Stop thinking about the cold wind and heavy snow.
Let the heart no longer have the pain of blood.
But I long for-
Add an escape net to the antidote.
Let me salvage in the mottled memory
Your warm breath
Oh, listen-
Who is talking outside the world of mortals?
Time is the best antidote.
Let me in this euphemistic bell
In melodious Sanskrit
A column of sandalwood filled the air.
In the obsession that never changes
Heal alone ......
Static ringtone appreciation:
Teacher tumbler began to write poems in the 1980s, and was interrupted by illness for a long time, but her poetic heart has never changed or weakened. Although I have been friends with teacher tumbler on WeChat for a short time, I have known her poems for a long time. There is no deliberate carving and hesitant expression, mostly lyric poetry. She propped up the sky of her poems with true feelings. If the emotion is ostentatious, it is because there is a fire in her chest. If emotion is gentle, it is because she is detached and open-minded after being honed. Even if there is a knot that can't be solved, it's because she is infatuated. This "antidote" is an unsolved poem.
"Solution" is to open what is bound and bound, not to remove it. Get rid of doubts, thoughts, pains and diseases.
The title of this poem is Antidote. The first sentence of the poem says that the poet is "a person who has been immersed in a medicine jar all his life". Moreover, I learned from a short conversation with the poet that the poet has been in poor health. Should the suffering people give them more pain? Should everything be like this? Is everything destiny takes a hand? Isn't my physical illness enough to make me lose you? Is it true that fierce rain often hits the autumn leaves and wet clouds always disturb the cold? If the physical illness has soaked me in the medicine pot, then your departure has robbed me of my spiritual support, thrown me into confusion, alienated me from time and separated me from existence. Seasonal changes are unknown to me, and spatial changes are ignorant to me. "I" caught a trace of smoke in the cave, that is, you, miss you, miss you. Everything is yours.
"Who hates breaking a thousand silk?" I hope to have a magic medicine to get rid of my pain. I hope the bad news from the cold winter is false. I hope you are still alive. In that way, my heart will not shed blood because of missing. Don't come again, don't meet again, but sadness comes from time to time and can be seen everywhere. Weeping willows and flowers are my tears. Cups and scrolls are your shadows. This situation is forbidden. Heaven and earth, give me the antidote! Apart from these 1000 ideas, that's all I want. Save "me" from suffering.
But I am eager to add a net to the antidote/let me salvage from the mottled memory/have your warm breath. What an ambivalent attitude! Missing is torture, and hopeless missing is despair. However, "I" can't give up this miss! Can't abandon you! Now even if you are not around, even if you are no longer a living person, as long as I miss you, you are there! I was there that night when I traveled by candlelight, Fantine Mozi, who enjoyed the spring scenery, was there, and under the vine, the tacit understanding that "I" was silent over sound was there. Do you remember your singing under the vine that day and the laughter that followed? All this, "I" can only salvage in memory. It is tears that moisten my eyes, and it is your talking eyes that warm me. A net with deep feelings, a net with deep memories, a net floating in the past, but "I" is sinking.
Some people say that time is the best antidote. I don't know who said this sentence, but I dare to assert that the person who said this sentence must be someone outside the world of mortals. And you are my lust in the world of mortals. If "I" burn incense, in the lingering smoke and long bells, "I" pray not for forgetting, but for persistence, loving and missing you forever until my soul dissipates with my death.
The antidote to "me" is obsession. Only when I miss you can I have "me". The title of the poem is the antidote, but "I" has not been solved.