He Qifang, author of Prophecy
This heartbeat day has finally arrived. I can hear your footsteps approaching like a sigh at night. Not the whisper of forest leaves and night wind. Tell me, tell me with your bell, are you the predicted young god? You must come from the warm south. Tell me about the moonlight there. The sunshine there tells me how the spring breeze blows away the flowers and how the swallows are infatuated with Populus euphratica.
I will sleep in your dreamlike song with my eyes closed. It was so warm that I seem to remember it, but I seem to forget it. Please stop, stop your long-distance running. There is a tiger skin mattress here. Sit down and let me burn the fallen leaves I pick up every autumn and listen to me sing my own songs in a low voice. That song will be as gloomy and lofty as fire, and fire will tell the life of fallen leaves. There is no need to go forward. There is an endless forest in front. The ancient trees are dotted with wild animals. The half-dead vines and pythons are intertwined, and no star leaks out of the dense leaves.
Hearing the empty echo of the first step, you will be too timid to put down the second step. Do you have to go? When I walk with you, my feet know every safe path, I can continue to sing the songs I forgot, and then give you the warmth of your hand. The dark night interrupted us, and you could look me in the eye in the blink of an eye. You don't listen to my excited singing, but you don't stop for my trembling. Like a quiet breeze, your proud steps disappear. ..
Oh, young God, did you finally die speechless as predicted?