In the area where the Yellow River flows.
At the bottom of countless dry rivers
trolley
With a wheel
Make a harsh sound and shake the gloomy sky.
Bud overcame cold and silence.
From the foot of the mountain
To the foot of the mountain
Full of noise
The sorrow of the people in the northland
On a cold day
Between poor villages and small villages
trolley
With independent wheels
Deep rutting on the gray loess layer
Across the vast desert
From this road
Which way?
Weave with each other
The sorrow of the people in the northland
Chapter II: The Past Years
Unlike lost luggage.
You can get it back at the lost and found office.
Lost Years
I don't even know where I lost it—
Some of them disappeared in pieces,
Some have been lost for ten or twenty years,
Some are lost in the noisy city,
Some are lost in distant wasteland,
Some are crowded stations,
Some are under abandoned small oil lamps;
What is lost is not like a piece of paper, you can pick it up.
More like a bowl of water spilled on the ground.
It is dry and has no shadow;
Time is a flowing liquid-
Cann't afford to salvage with a sieve or net;
Time cannot become a solid,
If only it were a fossil,
Even tens of thousands of years ago, I could find it in the rocks.
Time is like a gas,
Like smoke from the front of a speeding train!
The lost years are like a friend,
Isolated from the world, suffered some hardships,
Suddenly got the news that he
Long gone.