?
In the simple and honest morning, Roland
twisted into purple in the mist
tapped into the smoke cloud in March
and wet the broken poem;
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The years of circulation have completed your persistence.
Jinsong on the green rock,
You stand as a lonely watchman.
In the silhouette of a small river with arms bent,
The tinkling of a mountain spring
composes a broken poem.
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And what kind of deformity is that?
Is it the mottled
leaked from the dense forest? Is it the broken glass on the broken walls
or the incomplete page number in the ancient poetry collection?
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You are silent after all.
Like the sea, you are hesitant.
Please tell me if you can.
Tell me in your depressed and powerful voice in your ear.
Tell me about your watchfulness, loneliness and gentleness
And the absurd waves changing in the clear water of that pool
Alas, your patterns piled up with ancient time
scared the birds at your fingertips
the green grass under your feet.