On Dai Wangshu's Loneliness

Let poets talk about loneliness, for beauty, for love, or just for life itself. This is an inescapable fact. Everyone's loneliness is so clear in the seemingly eternal but fleeting sun and moon. I can't touch the wind, I can't keep the rain, I can only read the poems of people far away and grope for the pages that release ink. People who write about loneliness have slept on the vast land and converted to the embrace of nature. Reading his lonely people, from the cracks in the text, sideways into his wandering world. As time goes by, the shadow moves inch by inch, killing the world day by day. Decades of time, isolated from life and death, but also make people lonely, with a deeper taste. The poet fell asleep. This spring, I stood at his grave with a pure white daisy in my hand. Every night, in this small grave, does he still listen to the night wind blowing away? Every day, is he still sleeping and feeling the lingering drizzle? The woman in the rain lane walked away. An oil-paper umbrella propped up many people's minds. The poet forgot this complicated world, but in the world behind him, it caused him to think a lot about life. Loneliness. You said that loneliness is eternal. In the grave, you will always enjoy endless silence. From the earth to the other side, have you realized the full meaning of life and death? You just didn't say it. Only touch the land you love with your palm, only leave the garden and let loneliness leave like grass.