I wrote down my hometown, rice; I wrote down the clear river.
I wrote about the fish swimming underwater, and I wrote about the green grass on the shore.
I wrote down the ghost that lights up at night to find love.
I wrote down the legend of grandma and Guanyin
A person who has done good deeds all his life will eventually become a fairy.
Although she keeps saying that she has unfinished business.
I have to write these, and I have been entangled in homesickness for a long time in my dream.
I must write 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's been digging all his life. Can you believe it?
I have to write this before Tomb-Sweeping Day.
The ancestral grave has moved, and he can hardly speak a dialect.
The only last name that hasn't changed is because of you that I keep in touch with my mother.
I must put these unfinished poems in Tomb-Sweeping Day.
Burning in the northern sky
Sacrifice the soul
The festival of the dead, the carnival of tears
Whips, tribute fruits and incense sticks have been formed.
The scenery is vast.
We walked past the rigid wooden shelf.
Those souls are crowded together
As if to keep warm.
Close to each other
These souls are quiet and silent.
In their own boxes.
Think of the streets and acquaintances.
One thing, and ...
Love that you can't get in your early years
Now the body has been sawed.
Sculpting, painting
Different from before
Listen, firecrackers keep ringing like many people use their hands.
Slam the table with an empty porcelain bowl
Another way to express it is
We put all kinds of feelings
Dices are usually thrown on the table.
Then put it away.
Make the same sound
Oh, white ashes, the best morality
These souls are no longer used.
Language, actions and eyes
They cleaned up their lives a long time ago.
No more guests, no more loans
Some of their remaining breaths
It is our short and long memory.
What have we brought today?
Cakes and fruits are real.
In their eyes, it's like a person dreaming.
Have all kinds of dreams
Indirect things, rich fantasies
Eat, this is life.
within reach
Through the flames, these souls are like birds.
There is a nest, in a self-sufficient box
Regardless of spring, summer, autumn and winter; They began to regret it.
These long-term imprisoned souls
How eager to be like dust.
Between heaven and earth, like rain in the wind.
Or light falling from a screen between trees.
Look, light smoke is everywhere, we see it.
Sincere nostalgia has turned into a fog.
Once a year, on the steps
On the lawn, these boxes
Worshipped by us, erased by tears
And incense sticks are like our sadness.
Burn to ashes gradually
Close to each other
As if to keep warm.
Those souls are crowded together
We walked past the rigid wooden shelf.
The scenery is vast.
Whip, tribute and incense have been formed.
The festival of the dead, the carnival of tears
Father and daughter.
Put away your umbrella.
Restore a clear sky?
Blue background?
Write down the mood of Baiyun?
Kiss the earth with your knees?
I'm heading for the mountains in my hometown?
Sincere worship?
Where is the sun in my heart forever?
Where does the light he released continue?
Another glass of hard liquor?
Another quiet infiltration?
This thin wine is in a foreign land?
Can you take it all?
In that cold heaven?
Can we have the same shelf life?
I didn't know you were drinking with someone else?
Or do you drink it alone?
Anyway, who am I at this time?
Is it difficult to drink?
Qingming dried silk
Is it like the weather?
With the heart to go home
Miss my dear people
Are they okay in the distance?
Miss the person you want to miss.
You are in heaven.
Are you happy?
Do you know I'm thinking about you?
Really?
It rains in succession during the Qingming Festival.
What about the feeling that pedestrians on the road want to break their souls?
I never thought about it.
fabulous wealth
That's famous
Today is like tomorrow.
I just wanted to tell you.
I am very happy.