Pompeii
Please tell me: I have woken up from the gloomy night.
The house soon took shape.
The window is hung on a nail, which is a small frame.
A copy of an ancient painting.
My body went through the messy bed to get that one.
Guitar against the wall, and I'm holding summer.
Beautiful and dazzling chords
Please tell me that the blue peacock fell from the tree in late spring.
Under the neighbor's window, shaking, whose tears?
An old ship, abandoned on the beach, in the cabin.
Half of it has been submerged, and the moss duckweed floats.
The rapids in the past storms turned into dead leaves.
In the hands of dead spring
Hold a handful of intact pulp.
Quiet ship mud, like pure winter snow.
Hanging in its own decay, it can no longer dream.
The depth of the sea and the villages in distant water towns.
Barefoot women carry water chestnuts from Luji Mountain in the morning.
It heard the stone revetment in the town.
Collapse in the scorching sun. The old ancestral temple at noon
The pig iron knocker of the sun has been covered by weeds-
I'm already awake.
I am a descendant of an ancient village.
There is a haystack, the son of the wilderness, right next to A Mu.
Guard your youth. The blood on my body is the croak of frogs in the water bamboo field.
I can grow into an adult, made entirely of mortar and cement on the ground.
Brick kiln abandoned in strong wind-on the plain.
Drift, feed me ...
Sometimes, I am a piece of pottery deeply embedded in the soil.
Scratch mother's feet when busy farming.
My taciturn temperament inadvertently influenced the decision-making of the whole clan.
It's like a pitcher on the table-a jar and an urn on the roof.
My cool eyelids are as sober and full as spring rain.
My life story
This is a rural porcelain burning technology passed down from generation to generation. ...
On a little rose, rose
My dear lover leaned over her blushing cheeks.
Her slender waist comes from a moonlit night, from the legend of ancient brilliant peach blossoms.
Shiban Lane, a water town, is a Night Fierce troupe in spring.
There is the voice of Hu Qin in her smile.
There is a needle and thread with small blood beads on the embroidery tension frame-
Her father is a poor teacher. ...
Please remind me: the lost blue sky.
In the corridor that disappears in summer, where should I be for a while?
In the afternoon breeze, open the pages of Li He.
Or "promoting weaving"
When the sparkling waves on the river are covered by vast plains
Blow in front of my eyes-how should I behave?
In the shadow of broken leaves, in the stagnant water in alleys and farmland?