Meditation, your voice, it's good to know you. China with capital letters, people with lanterns, go west. If there is an afterlife, Tibet-the distance that passed by, the embrace of a thousand years, the soul that has nowhere to be placed, the golden flowers in the rain, the Beizi Temple, the symphony of spring, my father's Horqin and crazy horse.
I want to write a poem for the sun, the sunshine of Lhasa River, young China people, grateful to the earth, I am the son of the wind, I never stop flying, the spring of Qingxin, the masquerade, the moonlight in Delingha, the spring of Song Dynasty, what is the motherland, and Qinghai Lake.
1, father's Horqin
The long sound of horses tore the distant memory of Horqin grassland. This is a quiet land, so quiet that you can hear the screams of the wind and the crying of the rain. This is the place where my ancestors grazed cattle and sheep, and the land where my father looked up at the goshawk?
Horqin, you told a tragic story that never happened in a thousand years. You raised a heroic nation with boundless blue sky and pasture?
This is my father's grassland, and my father is riding a fine horse to drive the sheep's grassland. No matter how long your eyes extend, Horqin's figure has been standing there. Its vastness is beyond my imagination. As wide as the broad chest of the grassland.
It is a myth, which continues in legends from generation to generation. Is it a totem that rises in the depths of the years?
I embarked on the road to find my hometown along the road signs guided by my father. No matter which direction I start from, every road leading to Horqin has my father's long footprints and the sound of hooves. Every white yurt has fragrant milk tea and warm words.
My father once told me that this is the hometown of heroes and the place where my life began. He said that every child on the grassland has the blood of a hero, just like every seed on the grassland has Horqin, the place where my father's father sleeps and the hometown where I will live forever.
Your distant Mongolian tune is the most affectionate ballad of the grassland mother, your mellow and rich wine is the hospitality of the Mongols, your holy Hada and pious Aobao are flawless clouds in the grassland sky, Horqin, your father's passion precipitated in the years, and your mother's beloved back?
Every time I sing a song on the grassland, my father's eyes are always filled with tears. Every time I pull up the melodious stars on the grassland in Ma Touqin, it looks like my mother's eyes.
Horqin, you are the place where my father grazes his love and the paradise where his father sows his dreams. I saw the imprint of my father's life and the continuation of his blood on this grassland. Horqin, you are my father's mother, the land where he was born and raised. You are the cradle of life and the grassland where my father lives and dies-my distant Horqin.
2. "Your voice"
I like you because I like your voice and miss your voice, so I miss you. No words can describe the first time I heard your voice, and no words can describe the warmth your voice brought to my heart when it was introduced into my eardrum.
I like to listen to your voice in the quiet night, and I like to wander in your voice, so that my thoughts can grow wings and fly at will.
When singing music is playing in the air, your voice pushes my warm heart like water waves. My soft heart is intoxicated by your voice, and I am infatuated with my fantasy. What a handsome face is behind the voice flowing like a fountain.
The sky is blue, as pure as your voice created for me; Nothing can make the heart blend with the heart in an instant like music and sound. You said that voice is an emotional word, you know?
What your voice conveys to me every lonely night is tenderness and happiness that you can't touch but can really feel. When you are tired, make a cup of fragrant tea, sit in front of the computer, quietly listen to your voice coming from a distance, so pure and ethereal, wash away the fatigue of the day.
The wind is gentle, like your voice to ease the depression in my heart; When my heart is broken, I stand under the starry night sky and think about your voice, like a breeze soaking rain, like a dripping stone, and the peace and warmth in silence caresses my impetuous heart like a breeze.
When I miss you, light a stick of incense and let your voice diffuse in the air like a faint vanilla, which is full of my thoughts. If music is colored, then your voice is the brightest note in my heart.
If there is a route in life, then your voice is a ray of light in the darkness, illuminating my lonely journey. Listening to your voice is my destined happiness in this life. Let me sleep with your voice on my pillow tonight.
3. My life is a tree
I seem to have been standing, standing silently like a tree on the side of the road. All passers-by are passers-by who pass by me in a hurry, and I am just a fleeting scenery in the eyes of others. I don't know if my previous life was a tree, otherwise why, I always used to stand outside the world of mortals as a tree.
What kind of pain makes me turn the singer's happiness into a silent note, which is deeply hidden in the tree rings? What kind of happiness makes me dust off all languages and regard loneliness as a happy watch?
Perhaps, my standing is just a gesture, and my heart has been eager to fly. I silently bear the wind and rain, silently appreciate loneliness, and silently experience the cycle of seasons.
I don't know, I stand in the wind all day, just waiting for the result that I have to see in my destiny, or I am eager to stand at another height one day and touch the dust-free blue sky in my heart.
The tree is talking to the sky in the language of the wind, and every branch of it is a sign language that extends to the sky. But I can only pierce my chest with suffering every bleak night and tell the blue sky with the growth of blood and tears-I want to fly.
In my dream, I grow wings for myself again and again. I shed my bloody skin again and again. However, there is always a voice that keeps telling me that your life is a tree. If you leave the land, you will wither and you will die.
If the wind penetrates all the secrets, then it must know that I am actually a tree. My ordinary life can't be separated from the fetters of the world of mortals and the secular world, and my weak soul can't resist this still life and ugly darkness.
Flowers bloom, flowers fade, spring comes, and spring goes again. I enjoy sunshine and wind and rain in a person's world, and feel pain, sadness and joy in a person's world.
I think, if I were a flower, would my life be happy because of its splendor? If I were a grass, would my life be satisfied with luxury? But I'm just a tree, and I can't understand the joys and sorrows of other lives when I grow up.
I envy the birds flying in the sky, I envy the fish swimming in the water, I once dreamed of walking, I fantasized about the days when the trees were full of flowers, but I know that no matter how rich my heart is, I am still a tree.
Perhaps, trees should have the pursuit and yearning of trees. I often stand in a forest full of trees and look up at the blue sky. I know that the heart of the tree is longing for a height, and the branches of the tree are expecting the touch of the wind. But I still don't know who I have been standing silently for and who I am guarding.
In the twilight, there are always some loneliness caged in my heart like fog, and I can't get out of the fate buried in the soil.
Then, let me be a quiet tree. If my heart can be as quiet as a tree, then all the days will be my wings to fly.
When time carved wrinkles on my skin inch by inch, when I could get rid of the fetters of my mind and let my thoughts fly in the air alone, I suddenly saw the hand of time slowly smearing something called maturity on my forehead, and I finally learned to be indifferent in those lost days.
I should thank the annual rings carved for me by the years, which made me understand that standing is not only a gesture, but also that every life is not for flowering, and every pursuit is not for results. Those trees that don't bloom have a heavy life and spring that can't be ignored.
The tree is not static, but its life is constantly growing. In the depths of time, the heights of those lives are silently attached to the growth trajectory.
If my heart can really be as still as a standing tree, then I should be grateful for those silent days.