Sixteen handles of cinnamon pulp crack the green glaze / A few romances hide under the parasol / Mine, the ones I didn't bring, my romances / Downstream from the river / If Bi Pool were more glassy / It would illuminate the side of my sorrow / If the grasshopper boat were more grasshoppery / My sorrows extinguished / At half past eight. The drawbridge is still awake/Summer vacation has just begun, summer is young/The laughter of sophomore girls flies over the water/Fly the dragonflies, fly the dragonflies/Fly you. If you perch on the stern of my boat / how light this canoe should be / these paddles should remember / who is Xishi, who is Fan Li / then paddle to the Taihu Lake, paddle to the Dongting / listen to the ape cries of the Tang Dynasty / paddle to the gurgling Tianhe River / see your hair, in the myth / on the overriding of the boat. It's also a beautiful traffic wreck / You weave your brocade on the other shore / I'll make my flute on this shore / From the last Tanabata to the next Tanabata
Nostalgia
When I was little / Nostalgia is a small stamp / I'm at this end / Mother is at that end / When I grew up / Nostalgia is a narrow boat ticket / I'm at this end, and my bride is at that end Later on / Nostalgia is a short grave / I'm at the outer end, and my mother's at the inner end / And now / Nostalgia is a bay, and a river, and I'm at the outer end, and my mother is at the inner end. /This is the pulse of silence, day and night /Do you hear it, tinkling, tinkling, tinkling? It's the same, and I feel that every lotus looks like you/especially in the dusk, in this rain/eternity, moment, moment, eternity/waiting for you, outside of time/in time, waiting for you, in a moment, in eternity/If your hand were in mine, at this very moment/if your fragrance were in my nostrils, I'd say, "My little lover, no, this hand should be picking lotuses in the Wu Palace/this hand should be shaking a laurel, in the Mulan Boat/a star in the sky. A star hangs on the eaves of the Science Museum/Earring like a pendant/Swiss watch says it's seven o'clock/Suddenly you come/Step by the red lotus after the rain, fluttering, you come/Like a little song/From an allusion to love, you come/From the words of Jiang Baishi, rhyming, you come
Piccolo of the Soul
The soul comes back to us, mother, the East can't stay for long,/the tropical sea of the birth of typhoon,/the tropical sea of the birth of typhoon,/the tropical sea of the birth of typhoon,/the tropical sea of July. Tropical seas that give birth to typhoons, / The pressure in the North Pacific in July is low. /Souls come home, mother, the south cannot stay long,/the one-way street of the sun train/the equatorial moxibustion of July's pedestrians' feet. /Spirit return, mother, the north cannot stay long,/The white kingdom of the reindeer,/There is no night of rest in July, only day. /Return, Mother, you can't stay in a foreign land. /The little urn dreams by the floor-to-ceiling window, /along with the little plants you planted. Come back, Mother, to guard your town after the fire. /When spring comes, I'll walk on the cold, wet road, /and bury you in a small grave in my hometown. /Bury you in a small town in Jiangnan, Jiangnan. /The willow's hair hangs down to your grave, /and when spring comes, you'll dream a girl's dream, /of your mother. /And on the way to Ching Ming, O mother, my footprints will be deep,/The willow's long hair dripping with rain, O mother, dripping with my memories,/The soul will return, O mother, to guard this empty city in the four directions.
Seeking Li Bai
-- Drinking and singing in vain, flying and domineering for who is male, that pair of arrogant boots are still in the hands of Gao Li Shi's indignation, but the person has disappeared, leaving the refugees and wounded soldiers on the ground, and the rhythms of the Hu horse and Qiang flute to Du Er to recite in detail, since that year, He Zhizhang's eyes were blurred, recognizing you as an exiled immortal, he has become even more feisty, with a horse in the middle, and a flute in the middle. Since He Zhizhang was blinded and recognized you as the Exiled Immortal, he's become even more wild, hiding himself in a small wine pot under a spell, so even his wife can't find you, complaining that Chang'an is small, but the sky in the pot is long, and that in all of your poems you've predicted that you'll suddenly disappear, perhaps tomorrow, with only a flat boat breaking the waves, and a messy mane of hair, and the wind in your face, and a multitude of enemies, and the whole world wanting to kill you. When I drink wine, seven minutes of it becomes moonlight, and the remaining three minutes become the sword's breath, half of the Tang Dynasty, from Kaiyuan to Tianbao, from Luoyang to Xianyang, the clamor of the crowned and covered carriages and riders, is less than the echo of one of your crystal lines knocking on my forehead after 1,000 years, and the echo of the local flick. It's already bad enough to be depreciated in the world, it's embarrassing to be released into the night sky again, but it's a mystery to this day, which is your place of origin, Longxi or Shandong, Qinglian Township or Shattered Leaves City, and which hometown you'd rather return to. Wherever you're drunk, you said it's not your hometown. Disappearance is the only thing that happens to geniuses. Where are you going to go after this? The wolves can't stop crying, Du Er can't persuade you, but you're already gray under the window, and the Seven Immortals and the Five Friends can't save you, and there's no way to get in, the mountain is locked by the fog, and the fire is not yet pure, how can I follow the sunset in Ge Hong's sleeve? The shadow of the moon in the bottle, maybe that's your hometown, and you've been looking up to it all your life? Whether you go out and cry to the west or to the east, Chang'an has already fallen, and you don't need to scare the roc or invite the crane on your 240,000-mile journey home, you just need to throw the wine glass in the air, and it will turn into a flying saucer, and the strange green flashes of light will turn faster and faster, and take you back to the legend.
The Heavenly Question
Why have the lights on the water, one by one, disappeared into the twilight? The lights on the ground, one after another, why are they all gone into the night? How is it that the stars in the sky, one after another, are lost in the dawn? And how is it that our lives, day by day, end in eternity? And when I go, what color is it that takes me away? Is it twilight? Was it night? Was it the dawn?
The fire bath
An unquenchable longing for a different element, for a different space, for a different heat, or a different cold, not knowing whether to rise or to fall, whether to rise as the phoenix rises in the fire, or to float in the transparency of the flow, a swan, an image of white, reflecting the ego, long-necked and voluptuous, all in curves, there's a desire to be washed, and to be burned, to be purged, to be purified, and both need to be seduced, sedimented, to be floating, to go to the water, to go to the water, to go to the water, to go to the water, and to go to the water. In the West, there is a swan that swims in a sea of ice, a cold zone, a superhuman climate, where the ice is frozen, lonely, frozen, and the silence is the stillness of time, and the reflections are complete, and once, every wild goose was a swan, and the water shimmered, as if it were a mirage, or as if it were real, and in the East, in the hot East, there is a phoenix, and from the fire it comes back to the fire, and one step at a time, one spark, dancing in the flames, it burns the crow, but it does not burn the phoenix, a feather of the sun, and it is not burned. A feather of the sun rises in the trembling eternity, and the fire is the journey of the warrior, and the glorious cycle is the soul, from element to element, the white peacock, the swan, the crane, the white coat, the white fan, and time stands still, and in the midst of it, dwells the wise man, the hermit, and the ever flowing, ever blazing, and cleanses the sins of the warrior, the blood of the warrior, and the soul, and how do you choose? Do you choose between the cold and the hot, and the sea of ice, or do you choose the sun? Bathing in ice or in fire is a completion, an adorable completion, but bathing in fire is more adorable, bathing in fire is harder, fire is more transparent than water, deeper than fire, and fire, the gate of eternal life, arched with death, arched with death, an arched challenge, says that he who has not embraced death cannot be born, and that it is the Crow and the Phoenix who have decided to accept that will of the fire in a single moment, in a single moment, in a single moment, and that will of a thousand lashings of a thousand staves, and to accept that torture, to cry out to a thousand tongues of the cross, "I'm not guilty! I am not guilty! I am not guilty! Branded back, tattooed face, I am still me, still awake, my soul, awake, what is wrong with me, Zhang Zhang's burning arms, seem to hear far away, the hurricane of time whistling my wings, hairs weeping, bones groaning, frying myself with my own blood, Phoenix, your new life, said: my song is an unquenchable yearning, my blood boiling stops, bathing souls in fire, blue ink, listen to the song of the fire, raised up, after the death of the clearer and more exalted
Stone Age
Stone Age
Stone Age
At every moment, when I stayed in a stagnant place, I could not see the fire.
Whenever I stand at the window with my hand spread out, unable to reach the stone of my destiny ---- with the mysterious seal script, carving my name to prove that I am who I say I am, the stone of my destiny, I feel so strange, as if I am still in the Stone Age, a clumsy four-sided concealed weapon that I have to carry with me every day, signing it in person is not enough, but I have to wait until the stone nods and the woman in the window gives in, before she gives in. After death, it takes a stone to recognize a ghost, and in life, it takes a stone to recognize a person, so why, after thousands of years, can't we break the stone's spell? When will you let go of the stone in your pouch?
Or maybe the so-called spring
Or maybe the so-called spring is just over there in the phone booth, over there on Xiamen Street, where there's some stupid memories, where the airmail starts, where the eyes endure, where the postmarks and the stamps and the blows of the words, or maybe the so-called spring is just this, some wounded memories, some desires, some dust, or maybe the so-called spring is just a kind of crisp specimen, a bookmark that used to be a Narcissus, or a stone that used to be a Narcissus, or a stone that used to be a stone. A bookmark was once a daffodil or a butterfly
Burial of a Star
The light blue night overflows into the window, the summer is too full, and the firefly's little lamp dreams of the Tang Palace, of the chasing fan, of another summer night, of the funeral of a star, of a flash of light that extends and annihilates, and your exclamation, my retrospection, and a momentary countenance
The Terracotta Warriors
---- unearthed in Lintong. Terracotta warrior, armor undone, hands still clutching the bow and arrows or spears that I cannot see, if gongs and drums suddenly struck, would you turn at once, at once, and run toward the sands of 2,000 years ago, to join rows and columns of your fellow warriors? If you suddenly opened your eyes, your mighty moustache flashing with primness and untamedness, how would the astonished spectators avoid you? Fortunately, your eyes are still closed, as if you were accustomed to the darkness of the netherworld for so many years, how can you be exposed at first sight? If you suddenly open your mouth, who can hear the thick Qin accent and the ancient tones? After all this time, I don't know what happened in the Han Dynasty, and no matter what happened in the future, if you talk about your Xianyang, or if I talk about my Xi'an Incident, who can tell the game of chess in Chang'an? And no matter how strong your arrows are, they will never reach the Peach Blossom Garden again. I can't hide from you. The emperor's empire was built on the same track, with the same text, and the mighty black flag flew from the Great Wall to the crossroads, only to be passed down to the second emperor, leaving you, the warrior, with your terracotta warriors, and your disciplined army, with your 6,000 soldiers, or you will not have any clothes, but will have to wear them with your son, and you will be the one who builds a division, and repairs my spear, and you will be the one to follow your ancestor dragon with generous songs. But I didn't realize it was only three years ago. The world is no longer under the name of Ying. No longer under the name of Ying, but under the name of Qin. How many times has the Yellow River been cleared? How many times has Harley turned back? After 2,000 years of confinement, you are to be unearthed and reassembled in museums, with lifelike eyes and silent faces, to bear witness to a lost empire, while we, the noisy spectators, will all go underground, and will have to wait until what year and month to be unearthed? We are flesh and blood, and will perish in the twinkling of an eye, like the nobility you buried, leaving behind only you, the immortal ones, with your 6,000 troops, and the Tongguan Pass fallen. Who will put out the fire in the A-fang Palace? Who will put out the fire in the palace? You are left behind, never to return, hostages for generations, captives for eternity, and more than twelve gold statues to keep quiet. You are the most honored descendants of those who started it all, not with the First Emperor, but with Xu Fu's 6,000 men and women, sent to the future to explore immortality. The bhikkhuni loved to count her rosary beads under the grapevine. Nor can I throw my melancholy over the wall like the remains of a six-legged insect, when the wind, like a greedy wild boy, sweeps away the long hair, and seeks the round neck of someone, and I want to board the long, blue stage-coach, and go south, south, south, south, south, south, south, south, south, south, south. The top of the tower is the clouds of India, and the top of the tower is my mother, and I can see my umbilical cord from the ashtray, and I can see all the things that connect me. Once, my mother was here, and my mother wasn't here, and Siddhartha was here, and Siddhartha wasn't here, and Siddhartha was always on the other side of the monument. Buddha was in the Tang Dynasty, and Buddha was in Dunhuang, and he sat there under the Brahmaputra tree, in the cradle, and in the coffin, and the lions didn't roar, and the bells didn't ring, and the Buddha didn't speak, and there was the sound of the daughters' cries hundreds of feet down, and they were calling me to come back, to come back to my life. p>If I cause to hear thee speak, most beautiful of all, that verb, if I die that night, what fear have I? When I love, I must love poignantly, and if I can't love magnificently, your beauty has split me up for no reason, this summer, and as long as there is a pen in the sky, you will land in the palm of my hand, in the palm of my hand, in the palm of my hand, for example, in the twilight at the end of the summer, in the face of the pool of fragrance, in the face of the souls of the quiet nature, which of the two is it that will promise to say your little name if I call you by your name? As long as there is still a pool, as long as there is still a red color in the summer, why should I meet you? Lotus is Zhen Zhen's nickname, Lotus is Zhen Zhen, and when I think of Zhen Zhen, I see Lotus, as long as there is still in my heart, as long as there is still in my dreams, there is still a petal of freshness and warmth, that is, summer has already passed, that is, the remnants of the stems on the ground, that is, the remnants of the stars in the sky, what does not die is still the soul of Lotus, forever. What has been wounded will always be traumatized. Listen! In the depths of the forest, a bird chirped a verse to the four walls of the mountain
Mother's Day of Trouble
One of the two most unforgettable cries I ever heard, one at the beginning of my life and the other at the end of yours, the first I didn't know, I heard it from you, the second, you didn't know, and I didn't know, but in between the two cries there was the sound of endless laughter. In between these two cries, there is the sound of endless laughter, over and over again, echoing for thirty years, which you know and I remember. The world of happiness, when we first met, you greeted me with a smile, and I answered you with a cry, a shocking cry, and a sad world, when we finally parted, I sent you a cry and you answered me with a silent cry, shutting down and closing down the world of paradoxes, no matter whether we met for the first time or parted for ever, I have always cried for you. I always smile, but happiness ends with you closing your eyes. Every year, on Mother's Day, I hold the telephone in my hand, wanting to dial a number to my mother, who has been away for so long, just to hear her hypnotic voice one more time, but I don't know the number of the place where she lives, and besides, she's already asleep, and can't pick up the phone, so I say, "This is a long distance line, what country do you want to connect to? What country are you trying to reach?" What should I say? What's the prefix for heaven? What's the area code for hell? The impatient operator cut the line and left me with a piece of cord in my hand, is it a wire or an umbilical cord, even if I do get through, what can I say? "This world has become unrecognizable since you left, and the only thing that remains unchanged is my eternal gratitude to you."
Homesickness in Four Rhymes
Gimme a dipper of Yangtze River water. Give me a ladle of Yangtze River water, Yangtze River water like wine, the taste of drunkenness is the taste of nostalgia. Give me a ladle of Yangtze River water, Yangtze River water, give me a piece of Begonia red, Begonia red, Begonia red, blood like Begonia red, the burning pain of boiling blood is the burning pain of nostalgia, give me a piece of Begonia red, Begonia red, give me a piece of snow white, snow white, snow white, snow white, like a letter, the waiting of a family letter is the waiting of nostalgia, give me a piece of snow white, snow white, give me a piece of Lap-mei, Lap-mei, Lap-mei, Lap-mei, Lap-mei, like the fragrance of a mother. The fragrance of a mother is the fragrance of the countryside Give me a Lap-mei, Lap-mei
Xiluo Bridge
Stands, the soul of steel wakes up, the seriousness of the silence clangs, and the sea winds of the Xiluo plains shake the patterns of force, the webs of beauty, the nerves of every nerve of the tower of wills, and shake them, and whine them in despair, while the teeth of the iron nails are gnawing, and the hands of the iron arms are clenching, the silence of the seriousness of the silence. And so my soul awakens, I know that the crossed me will be different from the uncrossed me, I know that the me on the other side can't be restored to the me on the other side, but destiny reaches out from a mysterious point, a thousand welcoming arms, and I must cross the river, and I tremble slightly at the prospect of a corridor that leads to the other side, but the mighty winds of the Western Conch Plain come to my face and tell me the sea is on the other side, and I tremble slightly, but I must cross the river! Standing, vast silence. Awake, soul of steel. 1958.3.13 P.S. On March 7, I was traveling north with Xia Jing, crossing the Xiluo Bridge, and stopped to take photographs. The police officer guarding the bridge borrowed a telescope from me and peered at the other end of the bridge for a long time, and said, "I've been guarding the bridge for so long, but I still don't know what it looks like at that end!"
What does the rain say
What does the rain say all night long? The light upstairs asks the tree outside the window The tree outside the window asks the car at the end of the alley What does the rain say all night? The car at the end of the alley asks for the road in the distance The road in the distance asks for the bridge in the upper reaches What does the rain say in the night? The bridge upstream asks the umbrella of the hour The umbrella of the hour asks the wet shoes What does the rain say all night long? The wet shoes ask the barking frogs, and the barking frogs ask the fog around them, what does the rain say all night long? The fog asks the lamp upstairs The lamp upstairs asks the man under the lamp The man under the lamp looks up and says Why hasn't it stopped yet: from the legend to the present, from the fall to the surge, from the eaves leak to the river and the sea, and asks you, stupid moss, what does the rain say all night long? I thought I'd never find them again, but the girl in the jewelry store brought them to me on a blue magnetic plate and asked me, with a smile, if I'd like this 18-inch necklace. So, after 30 years of stringing together less than an inch a year, it's a very expensive time Each grain contains a silver gray crystal, warm and complete, just like every day that I have the honor to share with you Each grain of dewdrops on a sunny day Each grain of raindrops on a cloudy day Each grain of the thought beads that hang in your heart on the day of the breakup Stringing together the necklace with a beginning and an end, leaning against your heart with glee, relying on the eighteen-inch-long thread of karma that runs through the sun and moon.
Traveling the highway with Li Bai
You should have cut back on the drinks at the store. Imported whiskey is not like Lu wine. It's too strong. Blame it on Wang Lun. What's the point of showing off? You should listen to the doctor. Don't listen to Wang Lun. Cirrhosis of the liver. Didn't they say in the paper yesterday that he's been upgraded to the No. 7 killer? You've just killed a famous martial artist and you keep saying you're looking for immortality and chivalry. Is Kunlun too far away and you're looking closer to your bottle for the Dirt Man and the Foolish Immortal? --Oh, be careful, it's so dangerous, it's not a game to overtake a container truck, slow down, slow down, I beg you, the statistics of traffic accidents in the last few years, the number of casualties of the An Shi Rebellion, it's not a heavenly horse, it's not a highway, it's not an aeroplane, it's a 90 kilometer speed limit, my immortal, how come you're driving at a hundred and fourteen? Stop writing poems and go watch a Spielberg movie - listen, it sounds like an ominous siren - they're catching up, just pull over - change seats with me, quick, don't let the police catch you driving drunk with alcohol in your veins - poets have a bad enough image, critics and policemen are equally unforgiving - on your ID card it's suspiciously "unemployed". On your ID card, it's suspiciously "unemployed", so don't talk about Banished Immortal. Besides, your driver's license was impounded by the store last week because of a liquor debt. With Gao Li Si and the legislators offended, and He Zhizhang out of town, who's going to bail you out? --Six thousand dollars? Never mind, I'll put it up first, and when the lawsuits for "The Road is Hard" and "The Road to Shu" are won, and the royalties are in hand, then I'll be paid back: it's really unfair. How can the publishing law be enforced as seriously as the rules of the road, day after day? If Wang Wei hadn't gone to a symposium on pollution in Rim River, we should have taken his old car back to Pingtung
The two of us
Oh, I was given the immortal's golden hairbrush, with a golden handle like a tooth, to comb away this year's gray hair, to comb the black hair of the past, to comb it 36,000 times a hundred years ago, to comb the arched bridges, and the hair is the water, and the flowing water breaks down how many bridges? How many bridges have been broken by the flow of water? How much water has been lost under the bridges? Combing away the gray of today, combing back the bright black of the past, oh, give me the golden hair comb of the immortals, and I'll give you the silver earrings, in the delicate little earlobes, to guard the precious dimple swirls, like a pair of evil guards, to guard the light smile on the lips, and the good view under your brow, and not to allow the spies of time to lay down the thin crow's feet, or the hidden grooves on the forehead, to secretly steal your charm, oh, I'll give you the silver earrings
The tallest building to the sea
The tallest building to the sea
The building facing the sea, the long window facing the west, the dusk is colorful and mysterious, when the sun goes down, it leaves the channel to the sunset, when the sunset goes down, it leaves the channel to the lighthouse, my table lamp lights up at the same time, so it's a rite of passage, and the night has begun. The lighthouse is a table lamp on the sea, and the table lamp, is a lighthouse on the table, shining on the grey hairs of the heart, which undulate under the lamp, like the waves of a channel, waves after waves, to shake the late age. What is there to leave behind in this lifetime of uncertainty but a solitary lamp at the window, and a solitary lamp at the window. This lone lamp at the window and this long night with me, whatever I write, diary, letters, poems, I discuss it with him, my closest companion, the first reader, the late night, the chaotic situation of the world, and more than any confidant or even family member, I can quietly share my worries, and one day, when my gray hairs are no longer under the lamp, what is left of my lifelong sorrows, but to leave the sunset to the strait, to leave the lighthouse to the winds and the waves, to leave the century to history, to leave the century to history, to leave the century to history, to leave the century to history, to leave the century to history, to leave the century to history. Apart from leaving the sunset to the strait and the lighthouse to the winds and waves, apart from leaving the century to the history that can't be turned back, what else is there to leave behind? As for this solitary lamp, the witness of loneliness, dear readers, I leave it to you
The beautiful and fickle Witch-Woman, the Moon, whose specialty it is to translate the world, translates the sun's gold into quicksilver, the fire into ice, and the flavor of mint, and whoever tastes it, says that the translation is unreliable, but that it's even more mysterious, even more beautiful, than the original. The snow is another beautiful translator, intent on translating the world wrongly, or rightly, says the poet, because the original is so full of mistakes, that when the snow-girls come down in their six-petaled parachutes, swirling in the winds, the world becomes, overnight, whiter than a revolution, so white that, if the new snow clears, and the moon is full, and the shadows are spread out below, and the silver is streaming from above, and you come to me with a smile on your face, and you're a third color, between moonlight and snow, how can you tell me what you really are, when you've been in a snowy world? I wonder how the moonlight and the reflective snow can translate your true color, which is good enough, into a more brilliant color?
Ten years of watching the mountains
Ten years of watching the mountains, not the green hills of Hong Kong, but the endless land behind these green hills, the land of the dragons, the land of the four corners of the world, the land of the continent, the land of the strong, the land of the nine states, the land of the heroes, the land of the rivers and lakes, the land of the heroes. Ten years of watching the mountains, but I hated that the green hills were blocking the way to the door, and blocking the northward facing land of the dreams, but only for the sake of a little bit of memory of the childhood, I watched the mountains for ten years, and I was surprised that the green hills never came into my eyes. But the zinnias have bloomed, but they've given up again Ten years have passed, and on the eve of farewell, when I look up, all the peaks in front of my door suddenly gently flood into my eyes, and when I turn back, they've already stretched out in my heart Whenever someone asks me about the date of my departure, the green mountains will be stuck in my throat l'm afraid that in the future when I'm facing the sea, this piece of green will always come into my dreams... -The wave of the Eight Immortals, covered the ground of the cap ZhenGuan lion, head of the flying geese speak shrink into a pile of more charming bonsai and then turn around, ten years of destiny are transformed into a basin of inch of water, inch of the mountain realize that is the loss of the dream land ten years of sleep of the sound sweetness of the green hills guarding the door of this line, alas, speechless green hills to the hubbub of the market sound blocked outside
Zigui Qu Yuan festival
Mangled grass and trees, the sound of the mountains. > Mangang grass and trees, a torrent of midsummer Sun in Biju, people in the Three Gorges River eastward, the martyrs do not exhaust the hatred of the sword hanging calamus, incense floated corn Drums will be up, the dragon boat is ready to fly wings to fly, both sides of the paddles just waiting for the wave of the order of the flag to break the waves to meet the banished loner to return to his hometown at zigong zigui, the son of the not to return to the line of zigzig, the color of the haggard jianghu, where is he Qu Ping's name, the bones of the proud and unyielding never give in to the spine of Zhengzheng. In the East, the jianghu is full, the lower reaches are blocked by the sea The soul returns to the South, the South is not to wander The southern sea is vast, the sky is low, let Han Yu and Su Shi go on a deputation The soul returns to the West, the West is not to be prolonged The sands of the river, the Silk Road is long, the Kunlun Mountains are vast, the ?'?nglu Bird Road is frozen, the desperate regions let Zhang Qian and Xuan Zang go on an expedition The soul returns to the North, the Gobi is vast, the sands of the Gobi are stormy, let Su Wu go to the shepherds and Zhao Jun go to the peacemakers If you want to return to the north, you can't go up to heaven or down to the earth, but you'll be at peace if you go to the Three Gorges and hang your heart on the battlements of your homeland. You're a salmon that swims against the tide, but only with a desperate leap can you make a break for it. Like you, I went to my country when I was young and healthy, and I'm not as sad as I am. You're blocked by the rivers and lakes, I'm blocked by the strait, and you're going down the stream. When I was old, I turned back, and there was a shore to trace your tear stains, down to Miluo, across the Dongting, up to Jiangling, up to Jingzhou and Yichang, to pay tribute to Zigui, from the banks of Miluo you threw yourself into the water, to the door of Zigui, you threw yourself into the water, from a soldier of the country, to the cry of a baby, to put your life of grief and indignation away, to come to your temple to bow down to you, and to pay homage to you, to shake the sword, as if it were your temper, to show off the corn, as if it were not your bones, more than two thousand and three hundred years ago, you made your way into the clear stream, upstream to downstream, the river is vast. Upstream and downstream, the river is clear because of you, not the water of the Canglang, it's you, you're the alum that cleans the Canglang, listen to the sound of the drums, the thousands of oars and combs, like they're fighting to save you, but you're always in front of us, your relentless back is towering, guiding and extraditing for us, telling us not to follow the others, you're the seer of the Heavenly Question, you're the one who treads on the waves year after year to lead the way for us, to show the way you've long been practiced into immortal, and the God of the River is no longer a despondent man, but the God of the River. The river god is no longer the downtrodden sanlu dafu Ask all the woodcutters, fishing fathers, all the pointed rice dumplings, all the wormwood All the runners, all the dragon boats This has been a folklore that no one does not believe in Ask all the aquatic people, all the peltries All the hibiscus and orchid paddles and guizhao Chaos says Zigui zigui, the soul is coming back The festival of Duanyang, the cup is full of xionghuang The hatred of the history is compensated with the poems The martyrs are consoled with the water