The whole ancient dream is buried in that yellow land.
There are many flowers there, and there are green trees.
Beautiful as a park, but it is cloudy sometimes.
In the green shower, countless lines are also floating with blurred colors, like a beautiful fantasy.
Cold and bright, sad and cool.
Like a ruin, there is no trace of life.
The breeze blows at first, countless branches collide, and sounds wave after wave, some endless and rustling.
Light and shadow are interlaced in the forest, leisurely and carefree, and light and shadow are interlaced.
It's sunny, it's warm outside, and it's still cold here.
Occasionally, there were a few clear birdsongs in the Woods.
With the ocean of light, it fills the whole forest. Sometimes far, sometimes near.
Sometimes high, sometimes low, sometimes crisp, sometimes hoarse.
Is that the laughter and cheers of angels or the cries of the dead?
I don't know
All I know is that the whole old dream is buried in this yellow land.
That land is called a graveyard.
-
Attached is thomas gray's Elegy of the Cemetery (my inspiration is not this! )
The bell at dusk announces that the day is about to disappear,
Cattle are leisurely and carefree, like a breeze blowing through the low-lying grassland.
The farmer dragged his sleepy and tired body and hurried.
The wilderness was silent, and only the poet stood in the darkness.
Night falls quietly, and the vast expanse gradually fades away.
Suddenly, everything became quiet and lifeless.
I heard the cowbell urging my companions in the distance to sleep.
There is also a beetle buzzing around.
On top of the ivy-covered bell tower,
The night owl screamed a few times,
It seems to be complaining to the moon that a stranger has invaded the territory.
Disturbed the mystery of this lonely ancient land.
Under the big elm and cypress trees in front of the tower,
Summon up so many mounds that are susceptible to waves,
In a small cave under the mound,
Sleeping quietly is the common ancestor of the village people.
The fragrant morning breeze gently calls,
Xiaoyan prone on the beam murmured:
The hunter's horn echoed and the rooster gave a long cry.
But no one can wake those ancestors up from bed.
The fire is burning, and they can't face it anymore.
Housewives are so busy that no one will prepare dinner for them anymore.
Children and grandchildren will never jump into their arms again,
They don't kiss each other, they don't crawl on their knees.
Think about that year, think about that year-they waved silver sickles,
Recover the gold particles, push the plow,
They dug out the hard ground,
They raised their axes to cut down trees,
They are driving cattle, not to mention how happy they are.
Don't laugh at their mediocre and obscure work,
Don't underestimate their short and simple experience,
Their lives are not earth-shattering,
But ordinary life is still meaningful.
You can show off your great strength, your noble family,
Your wealth is increasing, your beauty is declining,
But you know, they are all waiting for the same destination-
That is to go to this dark cemetery.