The sun and the moon are flooded with the light of love and hate, and through the small window of my grandmother's house, my mind ripples with the waves in the dreamland. A group of pecking old hens hid the years, three cherry trees went to a faraway place, only I still wandered alone on the messy grapevine.
The red bricks bear the imprint of my years, the black tiles are inhabited by the old people's paradise, I only intruded into the world of weeds, a kind of hurt of missing years attacked my heart. Some dark night, or some twilight, the clouds of the sky rolled away everything I held dear.
Starting to think from a morning glory on my heart, those clouds drifting from the sky fell in my dusk, I took up a glass of wine and drank with the years, with the sun and moon in heaven and earth. Then I got drunk, and a sound of a piper came out from the bamboo forest, that moving piper sounded like a sob, like a girl who had just experienced a parting.
I stopped and lingered, exchanging a lifetime for a pale night rain. The raindrops slapped on the banana, and slipped through the clothes, hair, and fingers, sharp and deep. This is the reweaving of thoughts after panic, a rainbow flourishes in the soul of the rain.
The next day, the sky cleared, the heart was soft, and the water glowed like a red cloud rising from the girl's face, hanging from the red apricot branches beyond the wall. A few butterflies limped by, those gentle dances interpreting the true meaning of life. If I realized something, I stopped chasing, and returned the time to be quiet.
The winds of autumn are so strong that the flowers of the morning have withered away. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to get a good deal on this, but I'm going to be able to get a good deal on this. The distant back stumbled and fell broken and broken. After many years, who will salvage my heart from the moonlight?
O days gone by! Look at my face, it is yesterday and tomorrow. My spring flowers are gone, my wine glass is empty, my sky geese have flown south, only a pen is still guiding me to find the stale years. I believe that I will not grow old, I will only bloom, like the years in my mother's hands, always blooming.
After many years, I will also come back, in a certain twilight with few people, a beam of sunlight piercing through the thin clouds, leaves falling from the branches of the years, I bend down to pick up the morning glory in the sea of people. The morning glory is fresh life, it breathes, a cup of wine brewed in its heaving chest. And my body is the cup that holds the wine. And so I go through the years, glass after glass, and never look back.
2019.2.14 in Neijiang, Zhu Hongchu