Desolate fingers make the text thick.
Behind my eyes, it's autumn.
Thick or light, full of innocent sighs.
Who is the grass withering and sighing for a thousand years?
Then pull away, in exchange for fertile soil for poetry.
In the desolate land, autumn is planted everywhere.
There is no time to carve diamond crystals
Those quiet thoughts have slipped into the dew's eyes.
Who's still bending over for whom,
Pear blossoms in full bloom
You are a love song I once sang.
On a desolate night, I asked the blue of the sky
Every word of the orchid retains the fragrance of youth.
Qianshan, I only walk on the fragrant land.
Sow tomorrow's sunshine with footprints
If it is cloudy, then tonight. Who is listening?
Ice language from foreign countries, Qingge
There are some poultry to play with.
When I am confined to the narrow space that the internet can reach.
Footsteps point the way for words, and I try to open all the spaces.
Burning spring, sharing the smell of grass with you all my life.
Those pictures are locked in the village website.
Don't look, bow.
The story of fish and shrimp, chicken and duckling.
Beyond the mountain, Liao Wang.
A statue is fixed into a square of Chinese characters.
If it is windy at night, will it wither and scatter books?
Reproduced voice, skinny, my brush strokes.
Come to an abrupt end, autumn, distant mountains-
The call of distant mountains