Take Hexi and cross Mobei. And jade qing qi, from the waist down three feet. Make an appointment to chase the sunset in the sky. See the yellow sand again, but no trace of the old friend.
I sing and you play the flute. If the dream is broken, it will be sad. Why tonight? It's easy to leave when you are young. Half-sleeved dusty, sad guest.
Homework and Comments on Social Studies of Haitang Society No.6665438 +0
This poem is very unique. Listen to the music of Dream of Hexi Corridor and write the lyrics. Not everyone can add audio, but video can be used instead, but with video, it is easy to confuse the ears, which is not just auditory imagination.
Comment on Kui Gui, Vice President of Haitang Society, as Teacher Xiang;
"This tone desolate. Clear air, sunset and yellow sand constitute a beautiful desert picture. The upper shovel is stronger than the lower shovel.
Dare to ask: no trace of old friends. He laijun plays the flute. "
Uncle Ding replied: "I played the flute with you in my dream, and my dream was broken and sad. What is the night? "
Poetry and music are intrinsically linked. Poetry and poetry should have songs before poetry. Music is an abstract art, and poetry is the most abstract literary genre. The same tune has different interpretations in different ears. Listening to a touching tune will make your ears pregnant, sprout and grow.
I didn't go to see the documentary Dream of Hexi Corridor, but listened to this song. What impressed me the most was the flute sound inside, desolate and distant, echoing in the vast Gobi. At first, I thought Tuo also had this kind of timbre. Later, I googled it and found that it was duduk of Armenia, so my rhyme was set on "flute".
People in China collectively call the flute Qiangdi, because the musical instruments of the real Han nationality are really limited, and it is estimated that there are only Xiao and Qin.
The history of Hexi Corridor is too grand and the scenery is too unpredictable. I don't want to describe it, because my pen is too thin and soft to control freely, which would be a thankless thing. No matter how big the scene is, it is also composed of props. No matter how long the history is, it is also linked by stories. A flower and a world, a leaf and a Buddha. In duduk's bleak flute, I heard a sad story, the story of a pair of good men's bosom friends. It is unknown whether young people go to the northwest to do business or fight. But it must be fresh clothes and angry horses. It's just that I can't escape one of the eight great pains of life after all. The aggregation of life is accidental, and dispersion is the norm. It's a pity that people are always hurt by parting.
There used to be friends who traveled together, but now people are middle-aged, with half sleeves full of red dust, and only in dreams can they sing and play the flute together. Poor and sad are all guests. The guests are in Hexi, in Mobei. Perhaps, Hakka is also in Canada.
Who is not a guest? You, me, him or her, we are all just passers-by in the universe.
If you lose fifty steps, you must always laugh at those who lose a hundred steps.
How else to write this poem?