I think it has been raining like this since Du Mu's time.
I think the rain is still slowly wetting the newly added incense ashes and paper money all over the mountain.
I want to see the rain and how many flashing blue lights my grandmother broke in the underworld.
Rain, ice, cold, sadness, being in the body, focusing on the heart, carrying more than just a memorial service.
It's not just homesickness that accumulates. Ask the restaurant where I can sleep drunk.
The flute of the apricot blossom spring rain shepherd boy is endless in the journey of the wanderer, the spring rain and the wine flag of the low Asia in the south of the Yangtze River.
Could it be that I am drunk and sleepy, and I am going to bring cold food and wine next year?
Is it accidental or inevitable, unintentional or coincidental?
Sky-why does your face always start to cry at this time?
Earth-why does your heart begin to tremble inexplicably, as if to subvert the whole earth?
(2) When the wind blows and the rain falls, people are always worried and sad. I stood silently in front of piles of graves, mourning every wandering lonely soul. I hear you howling. You are laughing wildly and sobbing in the wind.
(3) I don't know whether it is a pile of loess in front of the grave, a solitary green bristlegrass or a mottled inscription washed away by the snow. Handwriting is like a sword piercing my eyes and cutting my lacrimal gland, so meaningless tears moisten my lips and teeth-bitterness.
(4) They all bowed down there. Although the road was muddy and their brand-new trousers were covered with yellow mud, they still refused to leave like statues for a long time.
Is the roar of incense sticks and firecrackers mourning the lost souls?
I don't want to. I just want to dig out every grave with my two fingers so that those souls can breathe. Tomb-Sweeping Day wrote a poem, and I wrote about my hometown.
Rice; I wrote down the clear river, I wrote down the fish swimming around the bottom of the water, I wrote down the green grass on the shore, I wrote down the female ghost who looked for love at night light, I wrote down the legend of grandma and Guanyin, and I did good all my life.
In the end, she really became a fairy. Although she kept saying that she had unfinished wishes, I would write them down.
I have to write about the scenery from your humble farmhouse. I must write the power of life from your poor back, just like my father dug Jin Wa out of the ground. We all know it's fake, but he has been digging all his life.
Can you believe that I have to write that these ancestral graves were moved before Tomb-Sweeping Day? I can't name the only surname that hasn't changed in the dialect. Because of you, I have to keep in touch with my mother. I have to write these unfinished poems in Tomb-Sweeping Day.
Burning the ancient poem "Cold Food" goes against the sky (Tang Dynasty). Han Yichun City is full of flowers, and cold food records the east wind and willows. As night fell, the palace was busy lighting candles, and smoke drifted to the house of the prince and the marquis.