A Letter to the Sensitive and Melancholic, Don't Be Sad About Autumn and the Moon, Life Still Has a Song of Months
Years later
Years later, I still
love your aging, metaphorical ugliness
but I, can't bring out my
how many people carry magnificent barges, walking and walking
only you, can clasp my fingers with you
this clasp, how many youthful and frivolous
how many trivial and worthless
in this changeable era
some things, are simply unable to change
empty shells blown away by the wind
relying on plump straw bales, love
ultimately is a reflection and a bow
after you, I am like a dead body
or, become one of the women
toxic, addictive, with small evil and big sorrow
our daughter, chewing on the malt candy we made
observing us walking on our respective redemption paths
having grown up, will she still believe in love?
years later
let my tombstone be next to yours
or, in the future
put me thinking of you days
give it to you
a letter to the cloud watcher
hello, unknown person
the person I remember even after a fleeting encounter
return, always intoxicated
high! Can't be higher
the frozen soil layer on the plateau covered with
the cables on my head, and your mountains on the mountain
always staying in the un-windproof tent
guarding the light and road through the clouds
occasionally, the howl of wolves is also good
every day, you walk ten miles to the town to fetch water
do you feel lonely, you extinguished a pile of cigarette butts
just use ordinary Chinese to throw out a sentence——
talking is not good, talking will lose things
yes, talking will lose things
how do we always express too much, forget to guard
you remind me a simple and naive principle with your plain words
you give me oxygen bottles and snow lotuses picked from the mountain
I have left it to those who need it more
I need what you give me unintentionally
I don't know your name, only know
this letter sends west along the lamp post wires
crossing half of China's clouds
will surely arrive at your low-lying military bed
you over there, must be guarding the silent mountains
like lambs returning to the flock
like Zaxi Delu finding good night
silver birch
this is the last warm in autumn
a tree, under the blue sky reflection
yellow a little not right
it almost flew into the sky
almost made people cry
almost exhausted the remaining power of a multi-day trip
gathered together, spread the leaves into flowers
this hopeless beauty, only in one direction
wind comes, silently resists
rain comes, tightly grasped
loved bodies, empty and desolate
ripe fruit, both nourishing and poisonous
the secret bitterness surpasses ingenious life
like the hands of angels pour out the wine of demons
I almost turned to take a cup
if I also grow old and helpless
please let me stay in this autumn
even if you are close at hand
I am full of nostalgia for you
January first, listen to the musicSpring Comes
December twenty-third, late to snow
with a little fireworks, like candied melons
such a young year is not warm enough to cover
don't dig, you must dig. Just like suddenly opening
many things can't be hidden
near the Spring Festival, I treat days as fences
trying to walk around one by one like a fence
but I found
it finally couldn't stop the anxiety
like suddenly opening
snowflakes fall, each one at its own pace
brother, I know your south is always rainy
therefore, you took a low-key attitude, wanting
a sun-kissed knee, with the impulse to touch
or, leaning on a wheelchair to guard the parents' portraits and take a nap
one by one, like admitting fate
repeatedly listen to a grinding music, drink beer
you say, spring has come, you leave
ask me what to do? This slow burn
can my hand, across thousands of miles, hold you
no, don't hold, wait for you to drive yourself away
I really want to use the remaining years to go back
along the way, pull out dry branches and weeds
to support the seedlings and words, return to
mother's eggs, just in time, brother
the mistakes I made are no different from yours
all because we wanted simple happiness
we are always fish, but couldn't live in the water
only took the posture of swimming away
spend half a lifetime to look for
no difference in height and no equality
the wind blows me, the moon moves slowly
spring is waiting for the scarecrow
everything is arranged normally and gracefully by heaven
not an error, is an error that is not yet enough
not loneliness, is lonely to not deep
walking and walking, only a person remains
those yellow rain, smoke houses
the music in the strings repeatedly lowered the head, stroked
knee sunlight, hair fragrance
irrevocably weeping
