Listen(2014.1.12)
Listen to the sounds of rain falling, flowers laughing, birds chirping, river flowing, trees rustling, cars honking; the noises of mills, the grievances of fish, threats of the deserts, the depletion of resources, shrieks of the animals, the smirk of garbage, cries of the forest, the voice of the earth!
Memory (2014.1.12)
Memory is most beautiful and illusory, it appears only in the depths of the human soul, it makes your mouth reveal a hint of smile, and also inadvertently lets your tears flow, it turns "having" to "used to have", things done cannot be reversed, words said cannot be revoked, some people miss it, so it is destined to become only a memory.
(2014.1.13)
You have to remember, in this world, you are unique, no one is like you,
you do not need to replace anyone. On the big stage of your life, you
are your own protagonist, you do not need to act a supporting role for
anyone.
(1.13)
A shadow, a story. Behind everyone there hide stories, big and small, deep and light. The story is unknown, even the people in the story don't know they've become a plot in someone elses' story. Passing someone on one side, the shadow left is carved in one corner of the story. Without any notice, without much care, not going to think more carefully, just a passing stranger, but this inadvertently will become the decoration of the story. Maybe one day, when hearing this story suddenly, you will find that you occupy a small position in the story, or you may never know you have become someone else's story. Your role in the story will only be buried in the soil along with the leading role, slowly decay with the passage of the years, until nothing is left, just as you never appeared, as if there wasn't any agitation, but you really did leave your shadow, no trace, no way to prove, no one to investigate. When you calm your heart, and ask the years past, they may be hesitant for a while, pause thoughtfully, then continue in their footsteps. Everyone is a storywriter, writing someone elses' stories, just like others are writing yours. When you finish this great story, and close your eyes, you cannot read it, but the readers will write comments for you. A little tears, a smile, a momento, you might be albe to see, in the moment you close your eyes, you will truly see the kind of realness you bring to others in the story.
(1.14)
Memory is varicolored, our life experiences are like a palette, when we squeeze all the colors into the palette, the color is both confusing and dull, but as long as you know how to mix the colors, the outcome will be brilliant and colorful. Memory is red, because in your past memories, the concerns your friends had for you will always be genuine and sincere, passionate and warm, when you tell a friend your grief, you need courage, tell him or her honestly, speak your mind, they will give you comforts. When you encounter setbacks, your friend will be sitting next to you till you get your smile back. Memory is blue, like the blue color of the bluetooth logo, it symbolizes wisdom. There are too many life experiences people need to remember, happy or sad, sweet or sour, more to go, but we don't have to remember all of them, we want to be like a wise man, and remember them selectively. Memory is green, it is a symbol of life, a symbol of hope, "remembering the past makes you rich, longing for the past makes you poor", it feels like you are in search of knowledge, when you don't understand something, like-minded friends speaks patiently, again and again till you fully understand.Memory is gray, life will always encounter a variety of problems, people of all kinds, how can you not meet a few scum-like figures to stir up your life, the pain makes you cannot forget, it is carved on you, and becomes a grey part of your memory.Memory is purple, it's llike violets, they need nutrients, and meticulous care, and memory needs us to remember forcefully, things worthy of remembering, things we want to remember. Memory is varicolored, it makes our lives full of hope, full of colors.
Literature(2014.1.14)
It's like the wind, unseeable, follow your heart. Seemingly concise, want to touch it, suddenly, misty and vague, without a trace.Changes of the time, making it more fluted and unhurried. Like a bottle of wine, mellow with age. In the mysterious and abyssmal night sky, it changes into stars, glinting in silence, unknown light, Perhaps, everyone may have had it before, but ones who have it in the end, are those who truly understand it.Oh the winds of the night, taking it through this vast earth, looking, looking, looking for the real spiritual traveler.
Benjamin Button(2014.1.14)
Clock reversed, every minute every second, streaming, then reappear, lying in the heart of the river, the whirlpool of feelings rushes out, every vivid visage. A beautiful poem torn to powder and dust, every inch of the time, all lives extend downwards, into the underground, geocentric temperature is not so high, some warmth, some soft light. The tide inundates his forehead, under the bright moonlight, gecko-infested wall collapsed, some things are worth practicing with his life, an ideal, a way of life. Benjamin and Daisy, a sad but not tragic ending, so calm, awaiting to remove makeup.
Lonely forest (2014.1.14)
Hazy night, a hundred trees, thin fog suffusing, a hundred trees quiescent, elegant shadows following the wind, enchanting and bewitching, fog, artful and cunning.
Desolate shadow of the moon, amongst a hundred trees, thin fog fluttering, a hundred trees quiescent, magic shadows following the wind, dancing, fog, walking and traveling.
Foliage rustling, above a hundred trees, thin fog ascending, delicately, a hundred trees shake and sway, lonely shadows following the wind, swaying, fog, swaying too.
Tiny traveling wind, diminutive and floating fog, dark and black and lonely forest, fog, dim and hazy.
(2014.1.14)
Write your dream on the wings of a butterfly, it flies away with the wind, roaming the paradise of springtime, under the blue sky, waving its bright and colorful wings. Engrave your dream on a pearly white shell, it climbs onto the shoal, to see how big the world is, scoured by the sea, a thousand times, flashing a strange light, next to the lush turqoise waters. Attach your dream to the hoof of a steed, hang it on the horn of an antelope, galloping in the vast grasslands, oh little goat and horse, race to your hearts' content, in the free and boundless wilderness, pursue the rising sun.
Dust falling (2014.1.16)
In the open meadow, walking, closing the eyes, enjoying the glare of the sun, hearkening to the croaks from the treetops, soft grass at the feet, bringing soothingness, just slightly, the deep blue sky, as dusk falls, clouds are rendered a bashful red, feelings of tenderness, overlooking the distant desert, a whole gale, roaring sands, leaving endless traumata, eyes full of quartz,dust falling, twilight ending, gradually the night replaces, the dawn is flickering in the darkest place.
(2014.1.12)
Life is fish, life is water. The soul is the sound of the ocean a fish hears, even though it cannot swim to it. A road of thousands of miles, over the mountains, across the seas, there is always heavy reality that we need to bear and face, All the feelings will gradually calm and be forgotten. In life, some people come some people go, some people return after having gone, some close, some far away in the horizon, some people pass us by, some people journey with us. People meet at the end of two roads, travel together, and say goodbye at the next turnoff.
Childhood (1.12)
Childhood is a cup of coffee, memorable when u drink it; childhood is a book that records every page of our hours of emotions; childhood is a cup of tea, sweetness lingers in your mouth after drinking it; childhood is a painting painted with our colorful lives; childhood is an insect, a toy, a discovery, a dispute ...... insignificant but full of our happiness, dreams and aspirations. Childhood is pure, unforgettable years.
(1.17)
When I was little, I saw the moon and the stars and felt they're very beautiful, listened to the buzzing mountain spring, clear and crisp, surrounded by mountains, a tree-lined place, i felt secure, lying in the arms of grandma, i felt happy, eating candy that cost a dime, it tasted sweet and luscious, i felt carefree. Older people working in the backyard, i tagged along, even though i was making trouble, i was very happy, how i wished days like this could extend infinitely, i wished to stay in that place for a lifetime. I grow up, grandma grows old, i wish to be a happy country kid for a lifetime, older folks, i wish you could be forever young, i wish to go to the fair you used to take me to, i wish to eat the best ravioli you used to make, the lychee you planted with your own hands.
(1.13)
Sense of presence (1.18)
A nightmare smashes the quiet night, in here you're always losing, maybe life is more valuable, waking up, a splitting headache, feelings are vague, a systemic fever, at this moment, an ordinary wet towel brings you a sense of awareness, sleepless, looking out through the casement, starry night with the luster of a gem, feeling like a diminutive dirt on the arched sky, the night soon restores its tranquility, like awaiting the next shooting star to paddle across the sky, you're glad, you still exist. Just like that, listening sensously to a descant, reading quietly an article, tactual wind blowing past the ears and humming slightly, in here, no need for rhetoric, just simple phraseology, common words, a dialogue with the heart, admonishing ourselves, impossible to misunderstand , to garble, to be lost, again. Everyone, being alive, is justifying their existence, because, yourself, your family, your clan, your society...they all need to.
Ideological battles, always intense like the sound of waves,perhaps fights like this makes you drenched in sweat, the body gradually regains strength and feeling, dawn has arrived, there have been passersby walking in the streets, perhaps life is like this.
(1.13)
Fireflies' light, fragrance of flowers and scented tea, looking back, suddenly a dream, now, sands and city walls, sea and forest lament, apes and birds cry, it is the humans' fault, listen to the roar of the wind, the howl of the sea, when people's hearts are smoked by the impermanence of this world, when people lose the ramaining bit of compassion, forests have been eclipsed, a patch of woodlands and a body of water, that once concealed the friendship with humanity, but now, greed has metamorphosed humans into the fierce winter, this makes even the universe shiver, they exploit the forest plants and trees, occupy the natural habitats of the land, but what can the woodlands and the ocean say? When the storm hits the earth, the forest and the ocean cry and hiss in exhaustion, who are there to wipe away their tears, no, no one has done this, time is getting ready to erase these memories, because, what the forest and the ocean have left, only plumes of smoke, but then people are getting anxious, they shout everywhere:"Friends where have you gone?", forest and ocean have turned into ashes and flied away, humans have turned cold and disheartened, the world thus falls into solitude and silence, the story thus ends.
Days (1.18)
Drifting time, barren years, south to north, in the ticks of the clock, the days walk past noiselessly, suddenly, looking back, things to remember, lost, things to forget, haven't.
(1.13)
Setting sun, a little drunk, drunk is the wandering, drifting heart.A touch of sun, hanging in the sky, inextricably shines down on the vast land, adorning every heart.Sparkling water, with dazzling light, under the big tree by the pond, forming a colorful and alluring aquarelle, mountains winding down, each mountain has a story, telling each other the vicissitudes of the years gone. Winds depart, very clear, the ever-changing clouds in the sky, red color, orange color stick their heads out through the clouds, the horizon is dyed red and gold, in the area where most clouds are, gone gone music notes, like magic they change into light, scatter into the mortal world. Light mood, listening closely, thinking silently, many many brisk music notes slowly stretch, winds whisk away gently, the views under the oblique light, clean and transparent, giving people the experience of aphasia. Gently close your eyes, let the thoughts follow the music notes parading in the village. In the curling smoke of the sunset, unknown ditty, poultry, cattle, livestock, etc leisurely walking home in the last touch of the afterglow. Carelessly thinking of these scenes, a warmth quietly flows in the heart, past moments come to the surface, did those moments once appear in a dream, no, our lives once walked those lands, leaving deep and shallow footprints, the root of our lives is there, flowers bloom flowers wither, time elapses, time flies, after our ignorant times, we will understand the silence, the serene village is always what the thoughts love to hold onto. The silhouettes of those moments gracefully transform into charming poems, charming paintings in the setting sun. Days glide along, quietly with so many touched moments, harvesting plain happiness and growth. In the dusk, hiding in the hubbub of the city, the thoughts are embellished by the setting sun.
(1.18)
Quiet night, calming the noisy heart, a thousand thoughts and a million feelings, dispersed by the soft gentle breeze, the bright and clean moonlight, flowing slowly on the earth, soft leaves, redolent blossoms, spheres of coruscating dews lying on top, like elves in midnight, glistening with silver specks, dismaying the sleeping magpies in the tree, in the night sky, arousing bursts of dings and echoes.
(1.14)
Genial afternoon wind accompanied by warm sunlight, blowing a breath of spring, it makes people a little lazy, it gives the brain a moment of blankness, sipping the faint fragrance of tea, lonely tree outside the window begins to sprout up tiny light yellow buds, the branches sway, to and fro, ingratiating the melody of springtime, they dance a graceful dance. December to January, the days lost so carelessly in the calm calm life, disappeared into the coming and going crowd, into the sigh of happiness and little sadness, all have become the past. Everywhere you see the attitude of the spring, spring is beautiful, it transforms the bleak winter and ice, so it is wonderful, new lives are everywhere, new lives emerging from the ground are joyous, the power of life, perhaps it's most ordinanry but most moving, this is springtime...
Faint aftertaste (1.19)
Thick fog is over, light wind, a touch of sun, floating leisurely with the thin clouds, flowers blooming, leaving a trace of faint scent, like a good wine, like an victorious scenery, intoxicating, forgot which place it was, stained with this kind of smell, quite touching, like silks of sentiment, hard to break, wants and wishes, hard to end. Faint aftertaste, poesies and paintings galore, faint aftertaste, the best comfort to the mind.
A nice quiet evening (1.14)
An encounter, can be so simple, memory, is a clever polish, the identities of people that passed you by, are modified into banquet partners, sumptuous and flamboyant, full of surprises, conveying dozens of unspeakable words in your gaze, in a vivid way, a better finer encounter.
Flashing time (1.19)
Your voice comes from distant places, a phantom, moonlight is like water, sleeping city and forest, bathing in it, in the clarity of the children's eyes, there live a group of happy wizards. Shadows on the wall, in pairs, forgot the color of roses, calm face of a youngster, like flowers at sea, this moment, you record only the flashing time.
Night too dark (1.20)
Bits and pieces, rain cracking the night, wineglass toppling over, people take their masks off, and fuddle, the world's beautiful, the world's too weary, who needs comfort, who won't languish, the night is just too dark, loneliness burning soberness, to lime and ashes, clear and cold, a neon pole, dreamless, in the mizzle, exhausted, a charming night song, singing out, repressed breakouts, inescapable encirclement, the night is just too dark, the years, smirched and smudged, black and white, withering away, the patter of the rain,
a kerosene lamp by the window, what does it remind you of, cold cold quilt, parting of the ways, walking into the horizon, never meet again, too many moths flying into the flame, no regrets, too many people chasing after fame and fortune, ghosts, too bad, everything has become water, morals blanching, the night is too dark, a yearning, can't penetrate, the worldly net.
Wooden horse (1.25)
In an amusement park there's a wooden horse, a ball, a barrel and other toys, in this amusement park, the wooden horse is most famous, wanna play it? wait in line.The wooden horse is a newcomer, very curious about everything, it is cute, and lonely, because it is very timid, he's afraid to make friends with other toys. Watching other toys chatting everyday, it doesn't have any firends, he's not happy. Finally one day, a toy takes the initiative to chat with the wooden horse, who is it? It's the barrel. The barrel says to the horse:"Wooden horse, you don't wanna come and join us?Don't you feel lonely?""Actually, I wanted to make friends with you, but I did not dare to speak with you uh .""It's okay, we like you! Be our friends!""Ok." Time drug by.The new wooden horse has become old, so does the barrel, the children at that time have all turned into adolescents, a new batch of children are coming, at the same time, there are a few new wooden horses coming too, the old wooden horse are worried that it'll be as lonely as before, he turns to old barrel for help. The old barrel becalms it and says:"Easy does it, wooden horse, aren't we still here with you?" the wooden horse is very happy, now he's not afraid of anything, it doesn't matter it becomes old, he will never be lonely.
(1.18)
Firmly sustaining all beings under the firmament, unlike, the laws of all things, no matter how vast the ocean is, after all, a drop in the ocean. Because it has no borders, emiting brilliant colorful light, hurrying out of the universe, leaving with the laws, drifting apart, farther and farther, that is love.
The Blue Bird (1.25)
She once believed there were boundless green forests,
yet her eyes were stabbed mercilessly by the Gobi desert;
she once was obssessed with the sparkling worldly snowflakes,
yet her wings were scratched by the biting cold wind,
she was an exiled fledgling,
lost in the complex and overgrown world,
a tearing shrill cry,
rising and falling,
yet she couldn't find the way home.
Venus (1.19)
Everytime, taking a walk, seeing a Venus, so far and so close, not close and not far, such a distance, red clouds all above the patio, or, four walls of gloaming, in that location, always seeing the hues of its light, suddenly, thinking of you, perhaps, it is you.
Streetlights (1.19)
Streetlights,
sleek moon,
standing on the roadside,
day or night,
scorching sun or stormy rain.
People don't need them during the day,
standing on the roadside,
shuttling traffic,
passing crowd,
turning a blind eye,
seeing but not looking.
Lighting up the dark night,
although only a small part,
but a lot of them,
standing on the roadside,
like putting a glowing necklace on the night,
like the stars in the sky,
changing into a beautiful night.
Untold stories under the lights,
many people say they pass by the streetlights,
actually,
beneath the streetlights,
throwing light of faith into human minds,
illuminating the path of dreams.
Blood and sleep (1.19)
Translucent goblet, in the dark powerless setting sun, golden, dim yellow lights, smell of wetness, shabby wood, dark yellow barrel. A cellar hasn't been opened, for a millenium, following the footsteps, the smell of dampness exuding a little flavor of oak, he picks up a crate, pouring, filling the goblet, a millenium of stillness, liberating quiet fragrance, as before, like blood, it never stops. Sipping gently, indeed, hasn't been awakened, with a hint of sour, and shadiness, whirling in the goblet, like blood circulating in the body, the messiness of the night, the dark red of the blood, lonely awaiting the dawn, drinking from this glass, dazed, staring blankly at the predawn darkness, gradually, tired.
Atlantis (1.30)
Grand vast ocean, adorned with sporadic grief, a sunset without the pyramids, without the warriors of Babylon, a torso exuding adventures, the Vikings' appetence, the glory of Atlantis, buried here. It was a stunning dazzling place, now a paradise of fantasies, in amongst the millions is my thought, looking out the window, i fantasize,fretful rings of birds, sitting next to me, i can't stop awakening, through the deep and dark Atlantic, i see a heart still beating, that is Atlantis thinking, searching,their former glory, i hear their cries, this is not our world, i hear the sound of their counghing up blood, cursing and bedamning, hoots and toots, the wind on the stringless harp, playing the Nocturne, blowing open the ruined ocean, i see the sunken golden wheel,their king, helplessly watching the sky, their cemetery, the historical past, all disapeared, the collapsed hope, growing in fulmination, they are looking at the present world with disdain, as with our brilliant, glorious civilization.
(2014.2.14)
A tiny sparrow, Khaki-colored feathers, the most banal color, can't even build, the most simple and crude nest, living simply, living plainly, perching in the pipeline, on the precipice, under the eaves, it can only make one sound, high or low pitch, is the only change, it can fly, but it can't, fight the clouds like the eagle, it can't, fly a thousand miles, like the wild goose, all its doings, in a limited space, all its life, a life that never stirs the waves, yes, it's just a sparrow, plain, ordinary, no big ambitions, a sparrow. It loves to fly in droves with its family, rising and falling, high and low, shrouding the sky, mantling the sun, it is proud of this, no protection by anyone, no pity from anyone, they're thriving and prosperous, as always, warblers, orioles, larks and thrushes,so many of thier kind, all have met with praises from humans, as for the sparrows, humans are basically indifferent,ocassionally, they get some attention, either by pecking the sorghum, or disturbing dreams, outside the window in the morning.
(1.19)
Poet and loneliness (1.22)
You, sitting quietly, a pipe, burning time, ashes and smoke, weak tea soaking thoughts, smoothing down, the poet's road, draft papers strewn with letters and calligraphy, softly recounting, words of the heart, when the spirit scarifies, the materialized windowsill, flocks of wild and orphaned geese, lost, flying past the window, the heart, shatters into pieces on a reef, in an instant, taken away by the waves, leaving no trace, papers wetting the heart, tobacco hurting the eyes, weak tea, in exchange for a sleepless night. The poet says "why have I not yet fallen as I so desire, the end of suffering is a noble cause and I wish to become consumed...there is nothing ive ever wanted more than goodness for all of life and mankind, peace, love, happiness and delightness defined, but now I only feel destruction and crave ruin," The poet longing and insisting, pen and paper, a libation, to souls lost forever in the lost world, people turning around and leaving, the oblivion of the footprints on the beach, you are a green leaf, floating and falling, into an uninhabited fen, Existence is losing its life, materializing and falling, in unconciousness, voiceless and breathless, you pick up the rotten and sodden years, off the fen, putting together, a sketch of life, a call for a green leaf, meeting the wind and withering, another intersection of luxuriant weeds, no footprints, no going back.No comers on the street, no companions. Pen and paper, it is all so simple, and your soul, you didn't forget to stop amd stare, at the crossroads, the season takes away the leaves, sans the fruits.
Special thanks to Imafungi.
Into the sun (1.23)
There are green wheat fields, butterflies flying and dancing, like colored sails out on the ocean, slender and delicate curls of smoke and steam, where the clouds meet the sky, gone, farther and farther. Walking into the sun, worries and fears will be less, don't pick up fallen leaves, visiting and pondering on the fall season, life is, every annulus, every slice of the years gone by. Walking into the sun, don't talk joys and sorrows, for a wanderer, where is home, sunshine will never grow old, where there is love, there is your own green hills and blue waters.
Light of fireflies (1.20)
Little flowing fireflies, flying in the mountain, the underbush, beautiful lanterns, lighting up the dark night, continuing the strands of light, of the bright sunny day, all night long, your wandering life, fierce wind and raging storm, never engulf your shadows, drenched, still moving ahead, as before, painting colorful fairy tales, alone and glinting in the dark, once pampered once silly, lost, tears falling onto the lapel, flowing golden years, buring persistence, lighting up corners,rambling the grey vast horizon, little flowing fireflies, elves in the dark, stars and specks of joy, cut crossing, fragrant shadows and tracks, of the years gone by.
Dawn (1.19)
The storm strikes, cleaning up the enthusiasm of the earth, the rhythm of thunder and lightning, lacerating the serenity of the night, padestrians hurrying, firm and solid steps,flowers hiding in daytime, scared sober, by the sudden torrential rain, flickering moon and stars, can't escape the fate, of being obscured by dark sinister clouds, unbridled wind and rain, will stop, in time, restoring the quiet night, ethereal, because of the quiet night, the horn sounding at dawn, colorful tangled world, starting to run.
No, perhaps (1.23)
The vastness of mist obscures all, all in the forest sleeping away quietly, a glowering lion, respiting powerlessly, long and heavy chain dragging up to the long end of the night, can't find the lost path, the dimness shall remain, domineering over the weak moonlight, tired, fatigued, sleepy. Waiting? perhaps, after dawn, morning is still far away, embracing the cold of the night and prostating, whether to wait foolishly, no miracle that day, the glorious emptiness.
If you can forget (1.25)
Forget, a two-syllable word, but not an easy six-letter word, just like when a green astringent apple turns ripe red, it has lost its sour taste.Some things, some people, only appear in the present,
our naive and silly childhood.The are so many people, who don't know how to cherish when having it. Until its broken, they begin to think "if"."If" is but illusive and deceptive bubbles we create ourselves. Though beautiful, they can't stand the grinding and polishing of life. Some memories, like sand in an hourglass, when the last grain of sand has flowed and dropped, you think you've forgotten, so thorough and so complete, but in a casual moment, the sand funnel turns, every scene, every drib and drab, reappears, so clear, so it is predestined, some things, some people, we can't seem to forget.So-called "forgetting" is but placing the memories belong to it in the depths of the mind, to hoard and to treasure.So deeply carved, no one can erase them. However beautiful a piece of memory is, you can only recall it, the past will always be the past.Someone once said:"when putting all those past memories into the pages of a chapter, when you open the book, a page will fall to your feet unintentionally, reminding you to not forget, all you need to do is to pick it up, put it back in the book. Time is still passing.
Headless beast (1.17)
They say,
headless beast is a myth,
no shape and appearance,
don't know about its life,
terrifying figure,
on the shoulders of the headless,
overflowing outwardly,
roaring disaster,
standing,
in between heaven and hell,
permeating,
a headless whirlpool.
Fictitious legend, the internet in the legend, headless beast, headless and souless, faceless and ferocious. Souless blood, it makes you comfortable, it tells you to be happy, impulsive, crazy, indulgent, Hedonistic, impetuous language all over the sky, pompous moths, turning and dancing, unwittingly, people cannot find, the personality to be people.
Headless beast, the places its been, left, pieces of shell, shells are exuberant, exuberant and stout, huge carrion, overgrown with, trendy tickets, cars, houses, foaming adipose, piled with, decayed cruelty, exploitation, oppression, and malignancies, the spread of GDP, accompanying, Gini coefficient, neurasthenia, neck slashed by the giant, beheaded, anihilated, faith and morals.
Headless beast, a dinasaur hatched out of, Capital and Technology, faithless shackles, tied up groups of interest, entreating headless reform, the elites, tantalizing wisdom, won the central plains, this era of the dinosaurs, speakng for the poor, working for the rich, bestial hegemony, cutting off the head, wanton proliferation, a river of the evolution of lies, saprophagous crows, a government that unfurls its wings to cross-flow, holding civilization in its palm, the ruminant desert chewing turbid eastern chaos, in an instant, festering and crumbling, the natural sun of hometown, atrophying and withering, every single day.
When headless wealth and distended shoulders really shouldering moments of terror and evil, in the animal world, most feared is human, fearing the restless shell built on a variety of treasures, fearing yet the headless life, in the vast loess, the primeval cavern, there are, water worn stones, and an aeriform brainpan, crawling quietly, outside the cavern, an extension of fresco, still floating in the air, a headless myth.
Baroque (1.30)
Seventeenth century, the Roman church, love of Baroque, fanatical, dense and elegant romantic ambience, drowning my fears, love, full of variables, mysterious and unpredictable.You must have seen, the cat with blue irises, she is prostating on that small street,breathing quietly,gracefully, the road you walk past everyday, shy and bashful, looking eagerly, or i should say, she's waiting for you, waiting for you to follow her, into that quiet and cold, silent fog, in the depth of the fog, a tea table is set, an embroidered and laced tablecloth, a lady in a tiered skirt, a gentleman in tuxedo who holds a tray of china, and a cat with blue irises, she is waiting for you.A girl with a brain full of strange and eccentric ideas, to me the most romantic is, scribbling Baroque, thinking of you on the sly, looking up to find you by my side, the most romantic is, you cared about the little affection i had for you, in my dreams, the cathedral who has witnessed your wedding, turns into white rose petals flying all over the sky in the blink of an eye, i smile lightly, waiting for you to reach out your left hand ,"Honey, could I ......? ”, the cat with blue irises,now lying at my feet, in the intoxicating afternoon sunshine, i dream, Liszt or Strauss?
Coastline (1.31)
Silence blooms along the way,twilight seems a little drunk,the distance suspending like a puff of smoke, the empty and hollow sadness overgrown, the past is so far and yet so near, guarding the memory, confusing but not forgotten, walking on the shoreline, listening to the solitary moon, a pillow of water, an unattainable distance, a piece of emptiness, a thread of sky, seperating the two worlds, this subtle parallel distance, the color of the world faded,eyes are blurred, the city lights are doused, the city calm composed and collected,a little lonesome tonight, you said, what's ought to be here has always been here.
Cat (2.3)
In my eyes,you are a talented painter, just moisten your tail with some paint, sweep a few strokes on the paper, then dip your paws in red ink, leave a few handprints, a beautiful floral gift-wrap, i really want to hold an exhibition for you, in my backyard, and let everyone see your masterpiece. Awesome.
(2.3)
When i was little,in a place where no one was,i was very happy, because there were plants, insects, fishes as my companions. Growing up, the more we are in the crowd, the more we feel lonely, because people are unpredictable and unfathomable, simplicity, is one of life's biggest realizations and awakenings, no wants no request no disappointment, simplicity is true happiness.
Scenery in the rain (1.23)
It's raining, fine threads of rain, like a spider web, every delicate thread, Stockinette stitch knitted on the dark grey sky, the moon tangled, the sun snarled. Willows swaying in the breeze, trying to break away from the cobwebs, little flowers, looking downcast, small fish swimming in the creek, lying in wait for shrimps to approach. Swallows whispering under the eaves, the ants have moved into a new house, homing pigeons on the rims of the fountain, picking feathers. Ducks and geese sporting on the pond, people nervous and busy, the streets and lanes, brimming with colorful parachutes.
Life, half and half (1.23)
Temperature lost indoor, outdoor, warmth rebounding in a cup of coffee, life toward bitterness, happiness not realized is placed in a small box on the left of the coffee, crammed, at leisure, milk, suger walking toward coffee, a white flower appears, for the first time, plenty of leeway, waiting to perform and to drop the curtains, the small spoon hasn't been picked up now probing into the borttom of the cup, quietly, bitterness at the bottom, sweetness afloat, stirring lightly, all that is sweet and bitter, a motive to linger, half sweet, half bitter.
Walking in the mist (2.4)
What a strange feeling,
strange trees and timbers coming into sight,
each one connected to the other,
but lost,
the same loneliness,
when the destiny has experienced glory,
but now in the majestic mist,
nothing is found,
I am no saint,
if i look only into the dark,
black,
silent,
ineradicable,
you are put in isolation,
on the other shore,
What a strange feeling,
walking in the mist,
life equivalent to loneliness,
strangers,
all are lonely.
Music, that string in the heart (1.25)
When a person is touched and affected by music, when he rediscovers himself in music, his thoughts and emotions will be refined, the effect of pure music will be more obvious, because there is no bondage of the lyrics, we can do anything to imagine what is hidden behind that flowing melody, or in the beginning we tried to figure out the author's feelings, over time, there's a moment, you will enter another state of mind, the music becomes happy when you are happy, it becomes sad when you're sad, as if the song is written just for you, the emotion of the song revolves around you, at this point, you will be able see yourself in the music, you'll be able to see in your dream, complicated flowers in full bloom, the solitary lampost in a dark chilly night, light projection in the sky, river rolling, snow overflowing, the pure and clear reflection in the eyes, quiet like a dream, the kiss of breeze, the stir of ripples...This is music, it strikes a chord in the most careless moment,it touches the heartstrings in the most incautious time, perhaps, it is a string in your heart, it is reminding you of its existence. If there are 1000 readers , there must be 1000 hamlets. It's the same with listeners. The same music, different people listening, the results will be different, but no matter what kind of music, long as it touches and affects you in some ways, it is indeed the most precious gift.
Blue Drift Bottle (1.30)
Floating tinkling seashells at the seashore, a sheet of skiff moving cleanly through the water, like a sleeping Aladdin's lamp, when the sea breeze strings the spray, swaying beneath your feet, floating and sinking, dancing in the sea, within the bosom of the warm sunshine, embracing the drift bottle, diffusing the scent of the sea and colors of rainbow, the boulder, where the skiff perches, every harbor, every hope.A piano, wondrous music notes, the blue-colored dream in the past, a secret that time covers up, have been forgotten, on a beach where no one knows.In this blue transparent world, loaded with your fantasies and expectations, notwithstanding nightfall, the tides and waves, surrendering the time and wings, but never will surrender, the beach, and you, the blue drift bottle.
Another civilization (2.5)
Wind whisking roses, a scent mixed with fried steak, a drinking horn, you don't turn a hair, you keep on tasting the fragrance of wine, thinking,the colision of iron and flesh, hearing, maybe, the people you're dining with, have never noticed, what they're savoring is meat mixed with fresh blood, elegant and dirty,civilization and barbarism,who is trying to hide,eating and killing in passing, values of the civilized world,could they be reflected in your doings.
A drop of water (2.6)
A drop of water voyaging acoss the back of a poet's hand, thinking of it as a path it has gone through, a trail full of tiny golden flowers, from the quiet side face of the droplet, seeing a verse in the depths of merriment,a lot of trauma, hidden behind, like the pain of a bee sting, from the paralyzed vicissitudes of its gesture, found a path that walked out of past history, a winding bumpy road, meandering into noisy verses, thenceforth, the poet keeps mum, the pagination of poetry and literature。
This night (1.31)
Night, quiet and serene.Listening quietly to Laputa, there is a voice flowing, there is also a kind of emotion flowing, a unique emotion towards the night, at this time, the heart is filled to the brim,holding many many good things.Always been afraid, the loneliness of the night, can make people sleepless, always been afraid, the length of the night, can make people feel at a loss,however, this is a different night, i fell in love with this one night, quietly.This night,i truned on the computer,looking at the computer screen, pieces of beautiful glitzy photography by Rodney Boles,turns out, there is a spiritl world to the night, although it is extremely illusive,i'm addicted.Reveling in the artistic conception of the photographer, driven by the mood of the night, it makes people feel that the night isn't dark, it is colorful,This night, deeply sozzled in this dream. Moreover, it is a wonderful dream.This night, there is no sound, only heavy breathing, without the noise of daytime, silence seems to be the sound exclusive to the night, however,i deliberately confer a sound on the night, the violin in Laputa, has been circulating and melodious,the night appears to be more clear and quiet, this is a beautiful sound,perhaps this is part of the night, i don't hate it, and so i'm in love with such a sound.I'm feeling it, feeling the wonderful and ethereal violin, forgetting the hustle and sadness,only the silent quiet sound. Relaxed, like the night,standing ,sitting ,sleeping, sideways, lying.Alone in a space, relaxing, feeling the freeness brought forward by the night.This night, it is quiet and it gives people a myriad of thoughts, everything's regressing, to the soul.Thinking about life, and savoring life.Things in the past, playing like a slideshow, watching with a quiet attitude.For it is the past, it can't be repeated, it is just a memory, it doesn't change anything.And the future is an unknown world,imagining in the mind, designing, how will it look like.A beautiful yearning, a night like this, bringing a dynamic, an invisible force.Having such a night, is a blessing, don't reject it, say, daytime is a vibrant, enthusiastic girl, and nightime, a gentle quiet and well-behaved woman, but no one understand her. Some people have always liked to stay up late, wanting more time with the night, wanting a little more spiritual resonance.During the day people have been exhausted, the night is a depolarizer, easing the uneasy mind, resolving the frustration of fatigue.Night is a soft web, inside are endless dreamy feelings, sunrise and sunset, this is a habit since acient times, Night, like a warm embrace, always attracts people to fall asleep and to dream.The night is getting deeper, quieter and darker.it is always such a reassuring feeling, coaxing people to go to bed.Think not, miss not. Night like a mysterious veil,never know the true face of the night, it is always there,walking gently,commanding its unique charm.The earth is sleeping, the night is sleeping too.
VanGogh (2.3)
Despite the glory and honor corroded by time, the Van Gogh's sunflowers still brilliantly soul-stirring, its value can not be measured, yet Van Gogh during his lifetime lived in poverty, a soul with nowhere to hide,nobody understood his pain,once a ragged man in ragged clothes,shivering, hungry with stomach cramps,once heard the sound of evil landlord hastening rent,the whole world had been indifferent and contemptuous,yet he went for broke, dedicating his life and happiness to arts, his tormented soul,groaning under the gearwheels of art.He continued painting, one after another,til there is no paint and canvas,bread and coffee,his paintings did not sell, who would have believed, a madman who cut off his own ear, there would be the birth of masterpiece.When we are looking,the tin kettle ceramic pots and rough chair,wornout shoes and farmer sowing,the vast expanse of wheat fields and golden sunflowers,this is what life is this is what nature is,he was confident,in his paintings,there will be eternality, and it will take a century of thinking, to understand.When the grass on his grave, grew and withered away,God has finally put the laurel of honor on his head, know not this is the luck or misfortune of art, a praise or a ridicule to art,an art that doesnt hurry, eventually, an art that creates miracles and timeless glory.
Deer (2.4)
The shadows of flowers,
the shadows of leaves,
they are your mottled jacket,
you're standing there,
with the boundless forest,
together,
you're like a tree that runs,
holding high the antler,
like branches and twigs,
dashing into the dense woods,
a tree with antlers,
a tree that runs,
conveying the breath of spring.
Laud (2.6)
Walking past that patch of greenery by your side, capturing the vivid afflatus that belongs to us, a sober vivacity like the springtime, lost in laudation, in an evening filled with goldenness,in the stillness,a loss for words,never dreamed of being a singer, you filled my heart with classical elegant diction, on the quiet, waiting for me, from amongst the bright reflections of the flcikering stars, catching the sound of nature, the fragmentary specks, writing the music, for it.
(2.18)
Everything changed, The air filled with solemnness,what's heard, only false flattery, one day, you're gone, taking everything that once belonged to me, what's seen, only empty memories, one day, you get used to these and those, everything is repeating itself, like a machine, over and over, what's understood, only a trace, of the warmth of the sun. one day, both of us have changed, becoming, secular and indifferent, perhaps we will still remember, things we confided to each other, one day, memoeries have been yellowed, what we can do, only strolling in the evening, perhaps we will then remember, the dreams we had, in the very beginning, one day, when even the words look pale,perhaps, everything wonderful, is gone.
(2.18)
Why do you get attached, to the incursion of the night, you who are far away, in my dream, in your smile, after a flash across my eyes, the pale florescent light in a certain space froze, and your lone shadow, the bedside lamp, you escaped the casket of light, and an eyeful of ,cold, cellphone, silent, clock, ticking.
(2.17)
A clown,
always laughs,
tears behind the mask,
are out of tune with this world,
No one can see his sorrow,
a funny clown,
brings joy to others,
sadness to himself,
No one can understand the sadness of the clown,
No one will care about the funny clown,
the wounds of the clown,
doomed to be,
behind the laughing mask,
a silence that no one cares about,
a sad cry,
looking into the mirror,
a wry smile,
seeing the real him,
in the dead of night,
the advent of the dawn,
picking up,
the familiar yet unfamiliar mask,
starting,
a funny comical day.
(2.13)
Looking for a dream, finding, in this sobriety, without moments, No radar, no map, walking, it has an unlimited power, no scruples, no misgivings, the hazy destination, mirrored in the mind, a tactful story, an auditory hallucination, too abstruse, mysterious, full of unreachable endings, looking, with all strength and might, finding, in a vague reverie,nearing, a spiritual paradise.
(2.12)
Wind, dilapidating the moon, haze in the night sky,the innocent smile,freezing the heartbeat, in a flash, an endless cry, a cry for freedom, the stillness of the night, becomes uneasy for this reason, it angers the strings of a cricket, it stirs the black and white keys of the grass, who is, livening up, the flashy summer, and who is, chilling the moon.
(2.11)
A legend has no color, the river of dreams,in the midsummer starlight,Silently dripping, imaginary fantasy,no raft, no waves of grass, no secluded distances, only hope, burning, in the silence, when eyes are closed, feelings, profound, and lasting, a quiet miracle, a blue river, the river of dreams,like a rope, In the space of imagination,spreading ,enchanting rhythms, a dawn full of flowers,prophecy and imagination.
(2.10)
Listen to the sounds of rain falling, flowers laughing, birds chirping, river flowing, trees rustling, cars honking; the noises of mills, the grievances of fish, threats of the deserts, the depletion of resources, shrieks of the animals, the smirk of garbage, cries of the forest, the voice of the earth!
Memory (2014.1.12)
Memory is most beautiful and illusory, it appears only in the depths of the human soul, it makes your mouth reveal a hint of smile, and also inadvertently lets your tears flow, it turns "having" to "used to have", things done cannot be reversed, words said cannot be revoked, some people miss it, so it is destined to become only a memory.
(2014.1.13)
Do not judge others by your own standards, do not see others through colored glasses, everyone has their own preferences and personality as well as the value of life,. Things that you're not used to seeing aren't bad. To cite this, biological species are decreasing and the human species is gradually increasing on the other hand; no matter what kind of people or things, their existance is reasonable. You need not get used to it, what you need is to learn to see the world through appreciative eyes.
(2014.1.13)
(2014.1.13)
(1.13)
A shadow, a story. Behind everyone there hide stories, big and small, deep and light. The story is unknown, even the people in the story don't know they've become a plot in someone elses' story. Passing someone on one side, the shadow left is carved in one corner of the story. Without any notice, without much care, not going to think more carefully, just a passing stranger, but this inadvertently will become the decoration of the story. Maybe one day, when hearing this story suddenly, you will find that you occupy a small position in the story, or you may never know you have become someone else's story. Your role in the story will only be buried in the soil along with the leading role, slowly decay with the passage of the years, until nothing is left, just as you never appeared, as if there wasn't any agitation, but you really did leave your shadow, no trace, no way to prove, no one to investigate. When you calm your heart, and ask the years past, they may be hesitant for a while, pause thoughtfully, then continue in their footsteps. Everyone is a storywriter, writing someone elses' stories, just like others are writing yours. When you finish this great story, and close your eyes, you cannot read it, but the readers will write comments for you. A little tears, a smile, a momento, you might be albe to see, in the moment you close your eyes, you will truly see the kind of realness you bring to others in the story.
(1.14)
Memory is varicolored, our life experiences are like a palette, when we squeeze all the colors into the palette, the color is both confusing and dull, but as long as you know how to mix the colors, the outcome will be brilliant and colorful. Memory is red, because in your past memories, the concerns your friends had for you will always be genuine and sincere, passionate and warm, when you tell a friend your grief, you need courage, tell him or her honestly, speak your mind, they will give you comforts. When you encounter setbacks, your friend will be sitting next to you till you get your smile back. Memory is blue, like the blue color of the bluetooth logo, it symbolizes wisdom. There are too many life experiences people need to remember, happy or sad, sweet or sour, more to go, but we don't have to remember all of them, we want to be like a wise man, and remember them selectively. Memory is green, it is a symbol of life, a symbol of hope, "remembering the past makes you rich, longing for the past makes you poor", it feels like you are in search of knowledge, when you don't understand something, like-minded friends speaks patiently, again and again till you fully understand.Memory is gray, life will always encounter a variety of problems, people of all kinds, how can you not meet a few scum-like figures to stir up your life, the pain makes you cannot forget, it is carved on you, and becomes a grey part of your memory.Memory is purple, it's llike violets, they need nutrients, and meticulous care, and memory needs us to remember forcefully, things worthy of remembering, things we want to remember. Memory is varicolored, it makes our lives full of hope, full of colors.
Literature(2014.1.14)
It's like the wind, unseeable, follow your heart. Seemingly concise, want to touch it, suddenly, misty and vague, without a trace.Changes of the time, making it more fluted and unhurried. Like a bottle of wine, mellow with age. In the mysterious and abyssmal night sky, it changes into stars, glinting in silence, unknown light, Perhaps, everyone may have had it before, but ones who have it in the end, are those who truly understand it.Oh the winds of the night, taking it through this vast earth, looking, looking, looking for the real spiritual traveler.
Benjamin Button(2014.1.14)
Clock reversed, every minute every second, streaming, then reappear, lying in the heart of the river, the whirlpool of feelings rushes out, every vivid visage. A beautiful poem torn to powder and dust, every inch of the time, all lives extend downwards, into the underground, geocentric temperature is not so high, some warmth, some soft light. The tide inundates his forehead, under the bright moonlight, gecko-infested wall collapsed, some things are worth practicing with his life, an ideal, a way of life. Benjamin and Daisy, a sad but not tragic ending, so calm, awaiting to remove makeup.
Lonely forest (2014.1.14)
Hazy night, a hundred trees, thin fog suffusing, a hundred trees quiescent, elegant shadows following the wind, enchanting and bewitching, fog, artful and cunning.
Desolate shadow of the moon, amongst a hundred trees, thin fog fluttering, a hundred trees quiescent, magic shadows following the wind, dancing, fog, walking and traveling.
Foliage rustling, above a hundred trees, thin fog ascending, delicately, a hundred trees shake and sway, lonely shadows following the wind, swaying, fog, swaying too.
Tiny traveling wind, diminutive and floating fog, dark and black and lonely forest, fog, dim and hazy.
(2014.1.14)
Write your dream on the wings of a butterfly, it flies away with the wind, roaming the paradise of springtime, under the blue sky, waving its bright and colorful wings. Engrave your dream on a pearly white shell, it climbs onto the shoal, to see how big the world is, scoured by the sea, a thousand times, flashing a strange light, next to the lush turqoise waters. Attach your dream to the hoof of a steed, hang it on the horn of an antelope, galloping in the vast grasslands, oh little goat and horse, race to your hearts' content, in the free and boundless wilderness, pursue the rising sun.
Dust falling (2014.1.16)
In the open meadow, walking, closing the eyes, enjoying the glare of the sun, hearkening to the croaks from the treetops, soft grass at the feet, bringing soothingness, just slightly, the deep blue sky, as dusk falls, clouds are rendered a bashful red, feelings of tenderness, overlooking the distant desert, a whole gale, roaring sands, leaving endless traumata, eyes full of quartz,dust falling, twilight ending, gradually the night replaces, the dawn is flickering in the darkest place.
(2014.1.12)
Life is fish, life is water. The soul is the sound of the ocean a fish hears, even though it cannot swim to it. A road of thousands of miles, over the mountains, across the seas, there is always heavy reality that we need to bear and face, All the feelings will gradually calm and be forgotten. In life, some people come some people go, some people return after having gone, some close, some far away in the horizon, some people pass us by, some people journey with us. People meet at the end of two roads, travel together, and say goodbye at the next turnoff.
Childhood (1.12)
Childhood is a cup of coffee, memorable when u drink it; childhood is a book that records every page of our hours of emotions; childhood is a cup of tea, sweetness lingers in your mouth after drinking it; childhood is a painting painted with our colorful lives; childhood is an insect, a toy, a discovery, a dispute ...... insignificant but full of our happiness, dreams and aspirations. Childhood is pure, unforgettable years.
(1.17)
When I was little, I saw the moon and the stars and felt they're very beautiful, listened to the buzzing mountain spring, clear and crisp, surrounded by mountains, a tree-lined place, i felt secure, lying in the arms of grandma, i felt happy, eating candy that cost a dime, it tasted sweet and luscious, i felt carefree. Older people working in the backyard, i tagged along, even though i was making trouble, i was very happy, how i wished days like this could extend infinitely, i wished to stay in that place for a lifetime. I grow up, grandma grows old, i wish to be a happy country kid for a lifetime, older folks, i wish you could be forever young, i wish to go to the fair you used to take me to, i wish to eat the best ravioli you used to make, the lychee you planted with your own hands.
(1.13)
If no one gives you recognition, you give yourself recognition. If no one admires you, you admire yourself; if nobody blesses you, you bless yourself. It's better to fight for tomorrow than to regret yesterday.When tears are shed, what's left is fortitude. Use your heart to touch the sunshine of your own, use love to create your own space and time. Carpe diem, with efforts, you can write the brilliant chapters of tomorrow.
Sense of presence (1.18)
A nightmare smashes the quiet night, in here you're always losing, maybe life is more valuable, waking up, a splitting headache, feelings are vague, a systemic fever, at this moment, an ordinary wet towel brings you a sense of awareness, sleepless, looking out through the casement, starry night with the luster of a gem, feeling like a diminutive dirt on the arched sky, the night soon restores its tranquility, like awaiting the next shooting star to paddle across the sky, you're glad, you still exist. Just like that, listening sensously to a descant, reading quietly an article, tactual wind blowing past the ears and humming slightly, in here, no need for rhetoric, just simple phraseology, common words, a dialogue with the heart, admonishing ourselves, impossible to misunderstand , to garble, to be lost, again. Everyone, being alive, is justifying their existence, because, yourself, your family, your clan, your society...they all need to.
Ideological battles, always intense like the sound of waves,perhaps fights like this makes you drenched in sweat, the body gradually regains strength and feeling, dawn has arrived, there have been passersby walking in the streets, perhaps life is like this.
(1.13)
Fireflies' light, fragrance of flowers and scented tea, looking back, suddenly a dream, now, sands and city walls, sea and forest lament, apes and birds cry, it is the humans' fault, listen to the roar of the wind, the howl of the sea, when people's hearts are smoked by the impermanence of this world, when people lose the ramaining bit of compassion, forests have been eclipsed, a patch of woodlands and a body of water, that once concealed the friendship with humanity, but now, greed has metamorphosed humans into the fierce winter, this makes even the universe shiver, they exploit the forest plants and trees, occupy the natural habitats of the land, but what can the woodlands and the ocean say? When the storm hits the earth, the forest and the ocean cry and hiss in exhaustion, who are there to wipe away their tears, no, no one has done this, time is getting ready to erase these memories, because, what the forest and the ocean have left, only plumes of smoke, but then people are getting anxious, they shout everywhere:"Friends where have you gone?", forest and ocean have turned into ashes and flied away, humans have turned cold and disheartened, the world thus falls into solitude and silence, the story thus ends.
Days (1.18)
Drifting time, barren years, south to north, in the ticks of the clock, the days walk past noiselessly, suddenly, looking back, things to remember, lost, things to forget, haven't.
(1.13)
Setting sun, a little drunk, drunk is the wandering, drifting heart.A touch of sun, hanging in the sky, inextricably shines down on the vast land, adorning every heart.Sparkling water, with dazzling light, under the big tree by the pond, forming a colorful and alluring aquarelle, mountains winding down, each mountain has a story, telling each other the vicissitudes of the years gone. Winds depart, very clear, the ever-changing clouds in the sky, red color, orange color stick their heads out through the clouds, the horizon is dyed red and gold, in the area where most clouds are, gone gone music notes, like magic they change into light, scatter into the mortal world. Light mood, listening closely, thinking silently, many many brisk music notes slowly stretch, winds whisk away gently, the views under the oblique light, clean and transparent, giving people the experience of aphasia. Gently close your eyes, let the thoughts follow the music notes parading in the village. In the curling smoke of the sunset, unknown ditty, poultry, cattle, livestock, etc leisurely walking home in the last touch of the afterglow. Carelessly thinking of these scenes, a warmth quietly flows in the heart, past moments come to the surface, did those moments once appear in a dream, no, our lives once walked those lands, leaving deep and shallow footprints, the root of our lives is there, flowers bloom flowers wither, time elapses, time flies, after our ignorant times, we will understand the silence, the serene village is always what the thoughts love to hold onto. The silhouettes of those moments gracefully transform into charming poems, charming paintings in the setting sun. Days glide along, quietly with so many touched moments, harvesting plain happiness and growth. In the dusk, hiding in the hubbub of the city, the thoughts are embellished by the setting sun.
(1.18)
Quiet night, calming the noisy heart, a thousand thoughts and a million feelings, dispersed by the soft gentle breeze, the bright and clean moonlight, flowing slowly on the earth, soft leaves, redolent blossoms, spheres of coruscating dews lying on top, like elves in midnight, glistening with silver specks, dismaying the sleeping magpies in the tree, in the night sky, arousing bursts of dings and echoes.
(1.14)
Genial afternoon wind accompanied by warm sunlight, blowing a breath of spring, it makes people a little lazy, it gives the brain a moment of blankness, sipping the faint fragrance of tea, lonely tree outside the window begins to sprout up tiny light yellow buds, the branches sway, to and fro, ingratiating the melody of springtime, they dance a graceful dance. December to January, the days lost so carelessly in the calm calm life, disappeared into the coming and going crowd, into the sigh of happiness and little sadness, all have become the past. Everywhere you see the attitude of the spring, spring is beautiful, it transforms the bleak winter and ice, so it is wonderful, new lives are everywhere, new lives emerging from the ground are joyous, the power of life, perhaps it's most ordinanry but most moving, this is springtime...
Faint aftertaste (1.19)
Thick fog is over, light wind, a touch of sun, floating leisurely with the thin clouds, flowers blooming, leaving a trace of faint scent, like a good wine, like an victorious scenery, intoxicating, forgot which place it was, stained with this kind of smell, quite touching, like silks of sentiment, hard to break, wants and wishes, hard to end. Faint aftertaste, poesies and paintings galore, faint aftertaste, the best comfort to the mind.
A nice quiet evening (1.14)
An encounter, can be so simple, memory, is a clever polish, the identities of people that passed you by, are modified into banquet partners, sumptuous and flamboyant, full of surprises, conveying dozens of unspeakable words in your gaze, in a vivid way, a better finer encounter.
Flashing time (1.19)
Your voice comes from distant places, a phantom, moonlight is like water, sleeping city and forest, bathing in it, in the clarity of the children's eyes, there live a group of happy wizards. Shadows on the wall, in pairs, forgot the color of roses, calm face of a youngster, like flowers at sea, this moment, you record only the flashing time.
Secret Garden (1.14)
Winged creature, flitting across the sky at nightfall, the path of dream, a window hiding quietly, you will have time to shut, in the future. Cerulean moonlight, streching out its palm, gentle and soft, dim and gloomy, like the clouds, Secret Garden, in the direction as mystic as dream, there's no time to dodge the humbleness, and the sublime gaze at heart, hands crossing the transparent darkness, feeling slightly cool, can't touch the intrinsic iciness and vicisstudes, only the wind with concealed fragrance humming at the edge of the ears. FLy away with your wings, soaring in your secret garden, the clean snowy white dream is your warm and soft bed.
Winged creature, flitting across the sky at nightfall, the path of dream, a window hiding quietly, you will have time to shut, in the future. Cerulean moonlight, streching out its palm, gentle and soft, dim and gloomy, like the clouds, Secret Garden, in the direction as mystic as dream, there's no time to dodge the humbleness, and the sublime gaze at heart, hands crossing the transparent darkness, feeling slightly cool, can't touch the intrinsic iciness and vicisstudes, only the wind with concealed fragrance humming at the edge of the ears. FLy away with your wings, soaring in your secret garden, the clean snowy white dream is your warm and soft bed.
The wind came (1.19)
A lean plum, no solitary and insolent capital, blooming in the icecold silence, not coquettish, not enchanting, not charming, not graceful, no large tracts of blooming, no hug of bees, no coil of butterflies, only the quiet and beautiful posture in the wind and snow, wind came, snow came, the flowers know, the light falling petals, nothing else, never once cold, never once told, sentences of words, can you hear it.
A lean plum, no solitary and insolent capital, blooming in the icecold silence, not coquettish, not enchanting, not charming, not graceful, no large tracts of blooming, no hug of bees, no coil of butterflies, only the quiet and beautiful posture in the wind and snow, wind came, snow came, the flowers know, the light falling petals, nothing else, never once cold, never once told, sentences of words, can you hear it.
Map (1.19)
The road in the human mind has no end, collecting many beautiful sceneries along the way, documented in a fine exquisite book, kept at the bottom of memory, in a night scant of stars and moon, gently holding these treasures in hand, shaking hands, can't hold the heavy sinking mood, so, scattered on the ground, fragmented crystal, river bellowing with rage, starry sky of the night, midsummer madness and torridness, walking marriage and love by the lake, the prayer wheel in Shangrila, sunset above the snowcapped mountain, deafening neighs and cries from the gorge, footprints left by the wind and dust, Potala Palace in the heart, life memories, winged snow in August, precious collections, horseracing by the sea, all these on this map, leisurely bringing back, memories and longings, to the heart.
The road in the human mind has no end, collecting many beautiful sceneries along the way, documented in a fine exquisite book, kept at the bottom of memory, in a night scant of stars and moon, gently holding these treasures in hand, shaking hands, can't hold the heavy sinking mood, so, scattered on the ground, fragmented crystal, river bellowing with rage, starry sky of the night, midsummer madness and torridness, walking marriage and love by the lake, the prayer wheel in Shangrila, sunset above the snowcapped mountain, deafening neighs and cries from the gorge, footprints left by the wind and dust, Potala Palace in the heart, life memories, winged snow in August, precious collections, horseracing by the sea, all these on this map, leisurely bringing back, memories and longings, to the heart.
Night too dark (1.20)
Bits and pieces, rain cracking the night, wineglass toppling over, people take their masks off, and fuddle, the world's beautiful, the world's too weary, who needs comfort, who won't languish, the night is just too dark, loneliness burning soberness, to lime and ashes, clear and cold, a neon pole, dreamless, in the mizzle, exhausted, a charming night song, singing out, repressed breakouts, inescapable encirclement, the night is just too dark, the years, smirched and smudged, black and white, withering away, the patter of the rain,
a kerosene lamp by the window, what does it remind you of, cold cold quilt, parting of the ways, walking into the horizon, never meet again, too many moths flying into the flame, no regrets, too many people chasing after fame and fortune, ghosts, too bad, everything has become water, morals blanching, the night is too dark, a yearning, can't penetrate, the worldly net.
Wooden horse (1.25)
In an amusement park there's a wooden horse, a ball, a barrel and other toys, in this amusement park, the wooden horse is most famous, wanna play it? wait in line.The wooden horse is a newcomer, very curious about everything, it is cute, and lonely, because it is very timid, he's afraid to make friends with other toys. Watching other toys chatting everyday, it doesn't have any firends, he's not happy. Finally one day, a toy takes the initiative to chat with the wooden horse, who is it? It's the barrel. The barrel says to the horse:"Wooden horse, you don't wanna come and join us?Don't you feel lonely?""Actually, I wanted to make friends with you, but I did not dare to speak with you uh .""It's okay, we like you! Be our friends!""Ok." Time drug by.The new wooden horse has become old, so does the barrel, the children at that time have all turned into adolescents, a new batch of children are coming, at the same time, there are a few new wooden horses coming too, the old wooden horse are worried that it'll be as lonely as before, he turns to old barrel for help. The old barrel becalms it and says:"Easy does it, wooden horse, aren't we still here with you?" the wooden horse is very happy, now he's not afraid of anything, it doesn't matter it becomes old, he will never be lonely.
(1.18)
Firmly sustaining all beings under the firmament, unlike, the laws of all things, no matter how vast the ocean is, after all, a drop in the ocean. Because it has no borders, emiting brilliant colorful light, hurrying out of the universe, leaving with the laws, drifting apart, farther and farther, that is love.
The Blue Bird (1.25)
She once believed there were boundless green forests,
yet her eyes were stabbed mercilessly by the Gobi desert;
she once was obssessed with the sparkling worldly snowflakes,
yet her wings were scratched by the biting cold wind,
she was an exiled fledgling,
lost in the complex and overgrown world,
a tearing shrill cry,
rising and falling,
yet she couldn't find the way home.
Venus (1.19)
Everytime, taking a walk, seeing a Venus, so far and so close, not close and not far, such a distance, red clouds all above the patio, or, four walls of gloaming, in that location, always seeing the hues of its light, suddenly, thinking of you, perhaps, it is you.
Streetlights (1.19)
Streetlights,
sleek moon,
standing on the roadside,
day or night,
scorching sun or stormy rain.
People don't need them during the day,
standing on the roadside,
shuttling traffic,
passing crowd,
turning a blind eye,
seeing but not looking.
Lighting up the dark night,
although only a small part,
but a lot of them,
standing on the roadside,
like putting a glowing necklace on the night,
like the stars in the sky,
changing into a beautiful night.
Untold stories under the lights,
many people say they pass by the streetlights,
actually,
beneath the streetlights,
throwing light of faith into human minds,
illuminating the path of dreams.
Blood and sleep (1.19)
Translucent goblet, in the dark powerless setting sun, golden, dim yellow lights, smell of wetness, shabby wood, dark yellow barrel. A cellar hasn't been opened, for a millenium, following the footsteps, the smell of dampness exuding a little flavor of oak, he picks up a crate, pouring, filling the goblet, a millenium of stillness, liberating quiet fragrance, as before, like blood, it never stops. Sipping gently, indeed, hasn't been awakened, with a hint of sour, and shadiness, whirling in the goblet, like blood circulating in the body, the messiness of the night, the dark red of the blood, lonely awaiting the dawn, drinking from this glass, dazed, staring blankly at the predawn darkness, gradually, tired.
Atlantis (1.30)
Grand vast ocean, adorned with sporadic grief, a sunset without the pyramids, without the warriors of Babylon, a torso exuding adventures, the Vikings' appetence, the glory of Atlantis, buried here. It was a stunning dazzling place, now a paradise of fantasies, in amongst the millions is my thought, looking out the window, i fantasize,fretful rings of birds, sitting next to me, i can't stop awakening, through the deep and dark Atlantic, i see a heart still beating, that is Atlantis thinking, searching,their former glory, i hear their cries, this is not our world, i hear the sound of their counghing up blood, cursing and bedamning, hoots and toots, the wind on the stringless harp, playing the Nocturne, blowing open the ruined ocean, i see the sunken golden wheel,their king, helplessly watching the sky, their cemetery, the historical past, all disapeared, the collapsed hope, growing in fulmination, they are looking at the present world with disdain, as with our brilliant, glorious civilization.
(2014.2.14)
A tiny sparrow, Khaki-colored feathers, the most banal color, can't even build, the most simple and crude nest, living simply, living plainly, perching in the pipeline, on the precipice, under the eaves, it can only make one sound, high or low pitch, is the only change, it can fly, but it can't, fight the clouds like the eagle, it can't, fly a thousand miles, like the wild goose, all its doings, in a limited space, all its life, a life that never stirs the waves, yes, it's just a sparrow, plain, ordinary, no big ambitions, a sparrow. It loves to fly in droves with its family, rising and falling, high and low, shrouding the sky, mantling the sun, it is proud of this, no protection by anyone, no pity from anyone, they're thriving and prosperous, as always, warblers, orioles, larks and thrushes,so many of thier kind, all have met with praises from humans, as for the sparrows, humans are basically indifferent,ocassionally, they get some attention, either by pecking the sorghum, or disturbing dreams, outside the window in the morning.
(1.19)
Quiet little cabin, dim and yellowish light, huddled in a corner of the night, a cigar, igniting the deep imprints of the years past, countless, rotating ring of smoke, is, the only shape in this space, dispersed, floating, accumulating in the depths of the soul, the most stale soot, a helpless sigh, wisteria hanging outside the window, dense branches of an evergreen, overwhelmed, an algetic twist, afar, colorfulness in a long lasting dream.
Poet and loneliness (1.22)
You, sitting quietly, a pipe, burning time, ashes and smoke, weak tea soaking thoughts, smoothing down, the poet's road, draft papers strewn with letters and calligraphy, softly recounting, words of the heart, when the spirit scarifies, the materialized windowsill, flocks of wild and orphaned geese, lost, flying past the window, the heart, shatters into pieces on a reef, in an instant, taken away by the waves, leaving no trace, papers wetting the heart, tobacco hurting the eyes, weak tea, in exchange for a sleepless night. The poet says "why have I not yet fallen as I so desire, the end of suffering is a noble cause and I wish to become consumed...there is nothing ive ever wanted more than goodness for all of life and mankind, peace, love, happiness and delightness defined, but now I only feel destruction and crave ruin," The poet longing and insisting, pen and paper, a libation, to souls lost forever in the lost world, people turning around and leaving, the oblivion of the footprints on the beach, you are a green leaf, floating and falling, into an uninhabited fen, Existence is losing its life, materializing and falling, in unconciousness, voiceless and breathless, you pick up the rotten and sodden years, off the fen, putting together, a sketch of life, a call for a green leaf, meeting the wind and withering, another intersection of luxuriant weeds, no footprints, no going back.No comers on the street, no companions. Pen and paper, it is all so simple, and your soul, you didn't forget to stop amd stare, at the crossroads, the season takes away the leaves, sans the fruits.
Special thanks to Imafungi.
Into the sun (1.23)
There are green wheat fields, butterflies flying and dancing, like colored sails out on the ocean, slender and delicate curls of smoke and steam, where the clouds meet the sky, gone, farther and farther. Walking into the sun, worries and fears will be less, don't pick up fallen leaves, visiting and pondering on the fall season, life is, every annulus, every slice of the years gone by. Walking into the sun, don't talk joys and sorrows, for a wanderer, where is home, sunshine will never grow old, where there is love, there is your own green hills and blue waters.
Light of fireflies (1.20)
Little flowing fireflies, flying in the mountain, the underbush, beautiful lanterns, lighting up the dark night, continuing the strands of light, of the bright sunny day, all night long, your wandering life, fierce wind and raging storm, never engulf your shadows, drenched, still moving ahead, as before, painting colorful fairy tales, alone and glinting in the dark, once pampered once silly, lost, tears falling onto the lapel, flowing golden years, buring persistence, lighting up corners,rambling the grey vast horizon, little flowing fireflies, elves in the dark, stars and specks of joy, cut crossing, fragrant shadows and tracks, of the years gone by.
Dawn (1.19)
The storm strikes, cleaning up the enthusiasm of the earth, the rhythm of thunder and lightning, lacerating the serenity of the night, padestrians hurrying, firm and solid steps,flowers hiding in daytime, scared sober, by the sudden torrential rain, flickering moon and stars, can't escape the fate, of being obscured by dark sinister clouds, unbridled wind and rain, will stop, in time, restoring the quiet night, ethereal, because of the quiet night, the horn sounding at dawn, colorful tangled world, starting to run.
No, perhaps (1.23)
The vastness of mist obscures all, all in the forest sleeping away quietly, a glowering lion, respiting powerlessly, long and heavy chain dragging up to the long end of the night, can't find the lost path, the dimness shall remain, domineering over the weak moonlight, tired, fatigued, sleepy. Waiting? perhaps, after dawn, morning is still far away, embracing the cold of the night and prostating, whether to wait foolishly, no miracle that day, the glorious emptiness.
If you can forget (1.25)
Forget, a two-syllable word, but not an easy six-letter word, just like when a green astringent apple turns ripe red, it has lost its sour taste.Some things, some people, only appear in the present,
our naive and silly childhood.The are so many people, who don't know how to cherish when having it. Until its broken, they begin to think "if"."If" is but illusive and deceptive bubbles we create ourselves. Though beautiful, they can't stand the grinding and polishing of life. Some memories, like sand in an hourglass, when the last grain of sand has flowed and dropped, you think you've forgotten, so thorough and so complete, but in a casual moment, the sand funnel turns, every scene, every drib and drab, reappears, so clear, so it is predestined, some things, some people, we can't seem to forget.So-called "forgetting" is but placing the memories belong to it in the depths of the mind, to hoard and to treasure.So deeply carved, no one can erase them. However beautiful a piece of memory is, you can only recall it, the past will always be the past.Someone once said:"when putting all those past memories into the pages of a chapter, when you open the book, a page will fall to your feet unintentionally, reminding you to not forget, all you need to do is to pick it up, put it back in the book. Time is still passing.
Headless beast (1.17)
They say,
headless beast is a myth,
no shape and appearance,
don't know about its life,
terrifying figure,
on the shoulders of the headless,
overflowing outwardly,
roaring disaster,
standing,
in between heaven and hell,
permeating,
a headless whirlpool.
Fictitious legend, the internet in the legend, headless beast, headless and souless, faceless and ferocious. Souless blood, it makes you comfortable, it tells you to be happy, impulsive, crazy, indulgent, Hedonistic, impetuous language all over the sky, pompous moths, turning and dancing, unwittingly, people cannot find, the personality to be people.
Headless beast, the places its been, left, pieces of shell, shells are exuberant, exuberant and stout, huge carrion, overgrown with, trendy tickets, cars, houses, foaming adipose, piled with, decayed cruelty, exploitation, oppression, and malignancies, the spread of GDP, accompanying, Gini coefficient, neurasthenia, neck slashed by the giant, beheaded, anihilated, faith and morals.
Headless beast, a dinasaur hatched out of, Capital and Technology, faithless shackles, tied up groups of interest, entreating headless reform, the elites, tantalizing wisdom, won the central plains, this era of the dinosaurs, speakng for the poor, working for the rich, bestial hegemony, cutting off the head, wanton proliferation, a river of the evolution of lies, saprophagous crows, a government that unfurls its wings to cross-flow, holding civilization in its palm, the ruminant desert chewing turbid eastern chaos, in an instant, festering and crumbling, the natural sun of hometown, atrophying and withering, every single day.
When headless wealth and distended shoulders really shouldering moments of terror and evil, in the animal world, most feared is human, fearing the restless shell built on a variety of treasures, fearing yet the headless life, in the vast loess, the primeval cavern, there are, water worn stones, and an aeriform brainpan, crawling quietly, outside the cavern, an extension of fresco, still floating in the air, a headless myth.
Baroque (1.30)
Seventeenth century, the Roman church, love of Baroque, fanatical, dense and elegant romantic ambience, drowning my fears, love, full of variables, mysterious and unpredictable.You must have seen, the cat with blue irises, she is prostating on that small street,breathing quietly,gracefully, the road you walk past everyday, shy and bashful, looking eagerly, or i should say, she's waiting for you, waiting for you to follow her, into that quiet and cold, silent fog, in the depth of the fog, a tea table is set, an embroidered and laced tablecloth, a lady in a tiered skirt, a gentleman in tuxedo who holds a tray of china, and a cat with blue irises, she is waiting for you.A girl with a brain full of strange and eccentric ideas, to me the most romantic is, scribbling Baroque, thinking of you on the sly, looking up to find you by my side, the most romantic is, you cared about the little affection i had for you, in my dreams, the cathedral who has witnessed your wedding, turns into white rose petals flying all over the sky in the blink of an eye, i smile lightly, waiting for you to reach out your left hand ,"Honey, could I ......? ”, the cat with blue irises,now lying at my feet, in the intoxicating afternoon sunshine, i dream, Liszt or Strauss?
Coastline (1.31)
Silence blooms along the way,twilight seems a little drunk,the distance suspending like a puff of smoke, the empty and hollow sadness overgrown, the past is so far and yet so near, guarding the memory, confusing but not forgotten, walking on the shoreline, listening to the solitary moon, a pillow of water, an unattainable distance, a piece of emptiness, a thread of sky, seperating the two worlds, this subtle parallel distance, the color of the world faded,eyes are blurred, the city lights are doused, the city calm composed and collected,a little lonesome tonight, you said, what's ought to be here has always been here.
Cat (2.3)
In my eyes,you are a talented painter, just moisten your tail with some paint, sweep a few strokes on the paper, then dip your paws in red ink, leave a few handprints, a beautiful floral gift-wrap, i really want to hold an exhibition for you, in my backyard, and let everyone see your masterpiece. Awesome.
(2.3)
When i was little,in a place where no one was,i was very happy, because there were plants, insects, fishes as my companions. Growing up, the more we are in the crowd, the more we feel lonely, because people are unpredictable and unfathomable, simplicity, is one of life's biggest realizations and awakenings, no wants no request no disappointment, simplicity is true happiness.
Scenery in the rain (1.23)
It's raining, fine threads of rain, like a spider web, every delicate thread, Stockinette stitch knitted on the dark grey sky, the moon tangled, the sun snarled. Willows swaying in the breeze, trying to break away from the cobwebs, little flowers, looking downcast, small fish swimming in the creek, lying in wait for shrimps to approach. Swallows whispering under the eaves, the ants have moved into a new house, homing pigeons on the rims of the fountain, picking feathers. Ducks and geese sporting on the pond, people nervous and busy, the streets and lanes, brimming with colorful parachutes.
Life, half and half (1.23)
Temperature lost indoor, outdoor, warmth rebounding in a cup of coffee, life toward bitterness, happiness not realized is placed in a small box on the left of the coffee, crammed, at leisure, milk, suger walking toward coffee, a white flower appears, for the first time, plenty of leeway, waiting to perform and to drop the curtains, the small spoon hasn't been picked up now probing into the borttom of the cup, quietly, bitterness at the bottom, sweetness afloat, stirring lightly, all that is sweet and bitter, a motive to linger, half sweet, half bitter.
Walking in the mist (2.4)
What a strange feeling,
strange trees and timbers coming into sight,
each one connected to the other,
but lost,
the same loneliness,
when the destiny has experienced glory,
but now in the majestic mist,
nothing is found,
I am no saint,
if i look only into the dark,
black,
silent,
ineradicable,
you are put in isolation,
on the other shore,
What a strange feeling,
walking in the mist,
life equivalent to loneliness,
strangers,
all are lonely.
Music, that string in the heart (1.25)
When a person is touched and affected by music, when he rediscovers himself in music, his thoughts and emotions will be refined, the effect of pure music will be more obvious, because there is no bondage of the lyrics, we can do anything to imagine what is hidden behind that flowing melody, or in the beginning we tried to figure out the author's feelings, over time, there's a moment, you will enter another state of mind, the music becomes happy when you are happy, it becomes sad when you're sad, as if the song is written just for you, the emotion of the song revolves around you, at this point, you will be able see yourself in the music, you'll be able to see in your dream, complicated flowers in full bloom, the solitary lampost in a dark chilly night, light projection in the sky, river rolling, snow overflowing, the pure and clear reflection in the eyes, quiet like a dream, the kiss of breeze, the stir of ripples...This is music, it strikes a chord in the most careless moment,it touches the heartstrings in the most incautious time, perhaps, it is a string in your heart, it is reminding you of its existence. If there are 1000 readers , there must be 1000 hamlets. It's the same with listeners. The same music, different people listening, the results will be different, but no matter what kind of music, long as it touches and affects you in some ways, it is indeed the most precious gift.
Blue Drift Bottle (1.30)
Floating tinkling seashells at the seashore, a sheet of skiff moving cleanly through the water, like a sleeping Aladdin's lamp, when the sea breeze strings the spray, swaying beneath your feet, floating and sinking, dancing in the sea, within the bosom of the warm sunshine, embracing the drift bottle, diffusing the scent of the sea and colors of rainbow, the boulder, where the skiff perches, every harbor, every hope.A piano, wondrous music notes, the blue-colored dream in the past, a secret that time covers up, have been forgotten, on a beach where no one knows.In this blue transparent world, loaded with your fantasies and expectations, notwithstanding nightfall, the tides and waves, surrendering the time and wings, but never will surrender, the beach, and you, the blue drift bottle.
Another civilization (2.5)
Wind whisking roses, a scent mixed with fried steak, a drinking horn, you don't turn a hair, you keep on tasting the fragrance of wine, thinking,the colision of iron and flesh, hearing, maybe, the people you're dining with, have never noticed, what they're savoring is meat mixed with fresh blood, elegant and dirty,civilization and barbarism,who is trying to hide,eating and killing in passing, values of the civilized world,could they be reflected in your doings.
A drop of water (2.6)
A drop of water voyaging acoss the back of a poet's hand, thinking of it as a path it has gone through, a trail full of tiny golden flowers, from the quiet side face of the droplet, seeing a verse in the depths of merriment,a lot of trauma, hidden behind, like the pain of a bee sting, from the paralyzed vicissitudes of its gesture, found a path that walked out of past history, a winding bumpy road, meandering into noisy verses, thenceforth, the poet keeps mum, the pagination of poetry and literature。
This night (1.31)
Night, quiet and serene.Listening quietly to Laputa, there is a voice flowing, there is also a kind of emotion flowing, a unique emotion towards the night, at this time, the heart is filled to the brim,holding many many good things.Always been afraid, the loneliness of the night, can make people sleepless, always been afraid, the length of the night, can make people feel at a loss,however, this is a different night, i fell in love with this one night, quietly.This night,i truned on the computer,looking at the computer screen, pieces of beautiful glitzy photography by Rodney Boles,turns out, there is a spiritl world to the night, although it is extremely illusive,i'm addicted.Reveling in the artistic conception of the photographer, driven by the mood of the night, it makes people feel that the night isn't dark, it is colorful,This night, deeply sozzled in this dream. Moreover, it is a wonderful dream.This night, there is no sound, only heavy breathing, without the noise of daytime, silence seems to be the sound exclusive to the night, however,i deliberately confer a sound on the night, the violin in Laputa, has been circulating and melodious,the night appears to be more clear and quiet, this is a beautiful sound,perhaps this is part of the night, i don't hate it, and so i'm in love with such a sound.I'm feeling it, feeling the wonderful and ethereal violin, forgetting the hustle and sadness,only the silent quiet sound. Relaxed, like the night,standing ,sitting ,sleeping, sideways, lying.Alone in a space, relaxing, feeling the freeness brought forward by the night.This night, it is quiet and it gives people a myriad of thoughts, everything's regressing, to the soul.Thinking about life, and savoring life.Things in the past, playing like a slideshow, watching with a quiet attitude.For it is the past, it can't be repeated, it is just a memory, it doesn't change anything.And the future is an unknown world,imagining in the mind, designing, how will it look like.A beautiful yearning, a night like this, bringing a dynamic, an invisible force.Having such a night, is a blessing, don't reject it, say, daytime is a vibrant, enthusiastic girl, and nightime, a gentle quiet and well-behaved woman, but no one understand her. Some people have always liked to stay up late, wanting more time with the night, wanting a little more spiritual resonance.During the day people have been exhausted, the night is a depolarizer, easing the uneasy mind, resolving the frustration of fatigue.Night is a soft web, inside are endless dreamy feelings, sunrise and sunset, this is a habit since acient times, Night, like a warm embrace, always attracts people to fall asleep and to dream.The night is getting deeper, quieter and darker.it is always such a reassuring feeling, coaxing people to go to bed.Think not, miss not. Night like a mysterious veil,never know the true face of the night, it is always there,walking gently,commanding its unique charm.The earth is sleeping, the night is sleeping too.
VanGogh (2.3)
Despite the glory and honor corroded by time, the Van Gogh's sunflowers still brilliantly soul-stirring, its value can not be measured, yet Van Gogh during his lifetime lived in poverty, a soul with nowhere to hide,nobody understood his pain,once a ragged man in ragged clothes,shivering, hungry with stomach cramps,once heard the sound of evil landlord hastening rent,the whole world had been indifferent and contemptuous,yet he went for broke, dedicating his life and happiness to arts, his tormented soul,groaning under the gearwheels of art.He continued painting, one after another,til there is no paint and canvas,bread and coffee,his paintings did not sell, who would have believed, a madman who cut off his own ear, there would be the birth of masterpiece.When we are looking,the tin kettle ceramic pots and rough chair,wornout shoes and farmer sowing,the vast expanse of wheat fields and golden sunflowers,this is what life is this is what nature is,he was confident,in his paintings,there will be eternality, and it will take a century of thinking, to understand.When the grass on his grave, grew and withered away,God has finally put the laurel of honor on his head, know not this is the luck or misfortune of art, a praise or a ridicule to art,an art that doesnt hurry, eventually, an art that creates miracles and timeless glory.
Deer (2.4)
The shadows of flowers,
the shadows of leaves,
they are your mottled jacket,
you're standing there,
with the boundless forest,
together,
you're like a tree that runs,
holding high the antler,
like branches and twigs,
dashing into the dense woods,
a tree with antlers,
a tree that runs,
conveying the breath of spring.
Laud (2.6)
Walking past that patch of greenery by your side, capturing the vivid afflatus that belongs to us, a sober vivacity like the springtime, lost in laudation, in an evening filled with goldenness,in the stillness,a loss for words,never dreamed of being a singer, you filled my heart with classical elegant diction, on the quiet, waiting for me, from amongst the bright reflections of the flcikering stars, catching the sound of nature, the fragmentary specks, writing the music, for it.
(2.18)
Everything changed, The air filled with solemnness,what's heard, only false flattery, one day, you're gone, taking everything that once belonged to me, what's seen, only empty memories, one day, you get used to these and those, everything is repeating itself, like a machine, over and over, what's understood, only a trace, of the warmth of the sun. one day, both of us have changed, becoming, secular and indifferent, perhaps we will still remember, things we confided to each other, one day, memoeries have been yellowed, what we can do, only strolling in the evening, perhaps we will then remember, the dreams we had, in the very beginning, one day, when even the words look pale,perhaps, everything wonderful, is gone.
(2.18)
Why do you get attached, to the incursion of the night, you who are far away, in my dream, in your smile, after a flash across my eyes, the pale florescent light in a certain space froze, and your lone shadow, the bedside lamp, you escaped the casket of light, and an eyeful of ,cold, cellphone, silent, clock, ticking.
(2.17)
A clown,
always laughs,
tears behind the mask,
are out of tune with this world,
No one can see his sorrow,
a funny clown,
brings joy to others,
sadness to himself,
No one can understand the sadness of the clown,
No one will care about the funny clown,
the wounds of the clown,
doomed to be,
behind the laughing mask,
a silence that no one cares about,
a sad cry,
looking into the mirror,
a wry smile,
seeing the real him,
in the dead of night,
the advent of the dawn,
picking up,
the familiar yet unfamiliar mask,
starting,
a funny comical day.
(2.13)
Looking for a dream, finding, in this sobriety, without moments, No radar, no map, walking, it has an unlimited power, no scruples, no misgivings, the hazy destination, mirrored in the mind, a tactful story, an auditory hallucination, too abstruse, mysterious, full of unreachable endings, looking, with all strength and might, finding, in a vague reverie,nearing, a spiritual paradise.
(2.12)
Wind, dilapidating the moon, haze in the night sky,the innocent smile,freezing the heartbeat, in a flash, an endless cry, a cry for freedom, the stillness of the night, becomes uneasy for this reason, it angers the strings of a cricket, it stirs the black and white keys of the grass, who is, livening up, the flashy summer, and who is, chilling the moon.
(2.11)
A legend has no color, the river of dreams,in the midsummer starlight,Silently dripping, imaginary fantasy,no raft, no waves of grass, no secluded distances, only hope, burning, in the silence, when eyes are closed, feelings, profound, and lasting, a quiet miracle, a blue river, the river of dreams,like a rope, In the space of imagination,spreading ,enchanting rhythms, a dawn full of flowers,prophecy and imagination.
(2.10)
A child's dream, like a boat, walking in a small river, growing, amidst
the tiny ripples, A teenager's dream, like a speedboat, crossing the
waves, wandering, swaying, amidst the seaweeds, The dream of a grownup,
Like a cruise ship,sailing on the sea, forging ahead, amidst the
billows, The dream of an old man, Like an ancient route, enlightening,
in the midst of time, shining, in the memory.
(2.10)
Sky, still gloomy,no wind ,no clouds moving, a solace to the sinking heart, dawn, penetrating the gate of clouds, a halo, wreathing the earth, peaceful, walking on the bluestone alleyway, feeling warm and free, but how could the flagstone willfully attract, the mud and dirt, the heart, is the color of the sky, why, such a spoil sport, a friend said, "You're blaming the mud unfairly", "Had it not been willing to sacrifice", it wouldn't be like this, this isn't a stain, instead, a medal.
(2.9)
Sun upon the distant skyline,
tearing a hole in the sky,
sprinkling radiance all over the land,
wind,
blowing away the stratocumulus clouds,
now,
the sky is cobalt blue,
after rain,
the last vestige of water,
gone,
dry moistless pavement,
at the end of the road,
there is another,
driving in a car on a weekend,
a busy street,
waiting in traffic,
listening to the sound of wheels rolling,
turning a corner,
looking up,
a hundred shades of green,
this is it.
Rainbow and forest (2.9)
The sun,sending out, pent-up radiance, spilling onto the rainwashed morning, cries of warblers,breaking the silence, fog filling the sky,covering , the lush forest, the flickering fog, is, the incarnation of tenderness,on the horizon, a seven-colored bridge,hanging in the sky, a bird's eye view of the earth.
(2.26)
Variety,
as many as the stars,
quality,
as negligent as the management of a department,
the growth,
as brief as the lightning in the rain,
the packaging,
as exquisite as classic horticulture,
the taste,
fading like morality,
toxins,
spreading like human desire,
quantity,
as empty as the clouds in the sky.
Change (2.26)
Actually what's gone, is but a verdant summer, actually, every fallen leaf, is but text written by autumn, and now, although this winter is cold, as long as you have a dream in your heart, spring will not come too late, In the hustle and bustle of the mundane world, an ancient temple where, the sound of the bell is, melodious in the morning, If the four seasons can be arranged, if fate can be rewoven, will days that aren't the same, still repeat, the same story over and over again.
(2.23)
Red beans, green beans, peanuts and pearl milk tea, destined to be, together, coupled with a little barley,pure and unmixed bean curd, pure and innocent you, Romantic memories, sad memories, sweet homemade grenadine syrup.Cold, hot, salty, spicy, If you want it simple, how about a combination of all these, pure and unmixed bean curd, pure and innocent you, the lost past, a wandering mind, a taste of, the poetry of, the house of tofu pudding, it will make your dream last, this dream will last, forever. People come and people go, regardless of men and women, if a breakup is destined to be the outcome, let not your heart be troubled, order a bowl of tofu pudding, three tenths of mood, seven tenths of feelings,Let today be the day that you become committed in being, in doing, in getting, achieving, in experiencing.
(2.18)
Along the way, i met a butterfly, she told me, about the surpise of the springtime, along the way, i met a frog, he told me, about the novelty of the summer, along the way, i met a squirrel, he told me, about the harvest of the fall, along the way, i met you, i wanna tell you, how much i love you.
Partita (12.28)
The night,
the beach,
the jungle,
the footsteps,
moon rising,
sea tempting,
the addiction,
the undulating waves,
her breath,
in the water,
fish who know not sadness,
corals,
a surprise,
seabed,
moist and warm,
raging,
surging,
emotional waves,
secrets about life,
wind plucking the strings,
her waves,
murmurings of a song,
ebb tide,
the beach,
moribund.
(2.10)
Sky, still gloomy,no wind ,no clouds moving, a solace to the sinking heart, dawn, penetrating the gate of clouds, a halo, wreathing the earth, peaceful, walking on the bluestone alleyway, feeling warm and free, but how could the flagstone willfully attract, the mud and dirt, the heart, is the color of the sky, why, such a spoil sport, a friend said, "You're blaming the mud unfairly", "Had it not been willing to sacrifice", it wouldn't be like this, this isn't a stain, instead, a medal.
(2.9)
Sun upon the distant skyline,
tearing a hole in the sky,
sprinkling radiance all over the land,
wind,
blowing away the stratocumulus clouds,
now,
the sky is cobalt blue,
after rain,
the last vestige of water,
gone,
dry moistless pavement,
at the end of the road,
there is another,
driving in a car on a weekend,
a busy street,
waiting in traffic,
listening to the sound of wheels rolling,
turning a corner,
looking up,
a hundred shades of green,
this is it.
Rainbow and forest (2.9)
The sun,sending out, pent-up radiance, spilling onto the rainwashed morning, cries of warblers,breaking the silence, fog filling the sky,covering , the lush forest, the flickering fog, is, the incarnation of tenderness,on the horizon, a seven-colored bridge,hanging in the sky, a bird's eye view of the earth.
(2.26)
Variety,
as many as the stars,
quality,
as negligent as the management of a department,
the growth,
as brief as the lightning in the rain,
the packaging,
as exquisite as classic horticulture,
the taste,
fading like morality,
toxins,
spreading like human desire,
quantity,
as empty as the clouds in the sky.
Change (2.26)
Actually what's gone, is but a verdant summer, actually, every fallen leaf, is but text written by autumn, and now, although this winter is cold, as long as you have a dream in your heart, spring will not come too late, In the hustle and bustle of the mundane world, an ancient temple where, the sound of the bell is, melodious in the morning, If the four seasons can be arranged, if fate can be rewoven, will days that aren't the same, still repeat, the same story over and over again.
(2.23)
Red beans, green beans, peanuts and pearl milk tea, destined to be, together, coupled with a little barley,pure and unmixed bean curd, pure and innocent you, Romantic memories, sad memories, sweet homemade grenadine syrup.Cold, hot, salty, spicy, If you want it simple, how about a combination of all these, pure and unmixed bean curd, pure and innocent you, the lost past, a wandering mind, a taste of, the poetry of, the house of tofu pudding, it will make your dream last, this dream will last, forever. People come and people go, regardless of men and women, if a breakup is destined to be the outcome, let not your heart be troubled, order a bowl of tofu pudding, three tenths of mood, seven tenths of feelings,Let today be the day that you become committed in being, in doing, in getting, achieving, in experiencing.
(2.18)
Along the way, i met a butterfly, she told me, about the surpise of the springtime, along the way, i met a frog, he told me, about the novelty of the summer, along the way, i met a squirrel, he told me, about the harvest of the fall, along the way, i met you, i wanna tell you, how much i love you.
Partita (12.28)
The night,
the beach,
the jungle,
the footsteps,
moon rising,
sea tempting,
the addiction,
the undulating waves,
her breath,
in the water,
fish who know not sadness,
corals,
a surprise,
seabed,
moist and warm,
raging,
surging,
emotional waves,
secrets about life,
wind plucking the strings,
her waves,
murmurings of a song,
ebb tide,
the beach,
moribund.
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