Talking
We reached Lok Ma Chau
The fog was rising, and we strangled our horses and looked around in bewilderment
The palms of our hands began to sweat
Looking into our glasses nostalgia that had expanded dozens of times
Randomly, like emanations in the wind
When the distance was adjusted to the point of heart-stopping
A faraway mountain flew in our face
I got a serious internal injury
Sick, sick, sick
Sick as the fading cuckoo on the hillside
Only one left
Crouching behind the "No Crossing" sign
Bloating.
An egret rose up from the paddy fields
and flew over Shenzhen
and snapped back
And at that moment, the partridges pronounced their smoky cries with fire
and one sentence
pierced through the March cold in a foreign land
I was burned to the bone, and my blood ran cold
You, on the other hand, put up the collar of your coat. Raise the collar of your coat and turn around to ask me if I'm
cold, or
not cold?
After the hibernation comes the vernal equinox
The Qingming Festival should not be far away
I actually understood the Cantonese accent as well
When the rain translates the mangled earth
into the language of green
No! You say, Futian Village and beyond is Shuiwei
The clay of my homeland is within reach
But what I catch back is still a palmful of cold mist Noon
The whole world is flossing its teeth
With toothpicks clean and white
At peace in the
Picking of their
Clear teeth
A flock of vultures of Izopia<
flying up
from a pile of corpses
crouching in rows in the
sparse dead trees
also picking their teeth
with one skinny
rized rib Throwing into the fire
the words of a love poem
locked in a drawer for thirty years
were burning creaking loudly
The ashes said nothing
It believed
Someday
That the man would read it on the wind
The man was scattered
The swing still swayed
The sunset still swayed
The woman's hair
Still swayed
Till
It took the The moonlight
threw itself on the treetops
Time, a serpentine
passed through my glassy flesh
Behind me
there was a cracking sound
like the dew of the morning
A single, quiet
tear hanging on a withered leaf
Not to be heard in a cry
Tears Wake up.
I don't know if I'm a guest
It's a wanderer's night
Dreams, mostly in black and white and
mixed with the soundtrack of
a leaking toilet
theme-less sonatas
Outside the window there are occasional sounds of
autumn that have escaped from the remnants of Ouyang Xiu's scrolls
A little bit of rain.
Wutong followed to say a few words
The rest of the mess must be
Neighborhood Dreams of Falling Leaves in Color
And the night, which is already half over
Lying here in the first half of his life is the homeland and the second half of his life is a
foreign land
Hengyang Hotel
Tossing and turning, and violently rolled over
There seems to be a whistle pressed against my back. I heard a whistling sound
and heard a chirping sound
I shuffled up and looked around
as if searching for a handful of dreams
that were spilled here forty years ago
from the pillow to the bottom of the bed
from the foot of the wall to the doorway
from the lights in the city of geese
to the sound of a rooster crowing
Hey, I'm not sure what you mean by that. >
Hey! So this is where your buddy is hiding
Kiki
How have you been?
Kiki, nip, nip, nip
Listening to you, you sound like you've lost a lot of weight
Kiki? Kiki, nip, nip, nip
What? Shedding dozens of layers of skin!
Kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki?
Me? and the process of its corruption
Do you know?
You and I live in a rotten core
After death
Never to sprout in a husk
Kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kiki-kik!
You ask me about my future behavior?
Where will I end up?
Kiki
What an embarrassing question to ask, old man
I was once
a dried-up fish
once a cocooned silk worm
now an old spider
hanging from a remnant of silk
destined to swing in the wind for the rest of my life
Kiki, kiki, kiki, kiki, kiki, kiki, kiki, kiki, kiki, kiki, kiki, kiki, kiki, kiki. Chirp,
Yesterday I strolled along the river,
to where,
the reeds bend to drink.
By the way, I asked the chimney,
to write me a long letter in the sky,
Scribble is scribble is scribble.
And my heart,
is as bright as the candlelight in front of your window,
slightly ambiguous,
inevitable,
because of the wind.
It doesn't matter whether you can read this letter or not,
what matters is that
you make sure to get angry,
or laugh, before all the daisies have faded.
Hurry up.
Hurry to get my thin shirt out of the box,
Hurry to comb your dark, soft flirtations in the mirror,
and then with the love of an entire lifetime,
light a lamp.
I am the fire,
which may go out at any moment,
because of the wind.
Death in the Stone Chamber (16 selections)
1
Only by chance, with my head turned toward my neighbor's tunnel, I was transfixed
In the early morning, when the man was naked and betrayed death
And letting a roar of blackness cross his veins
I was transfixed, and with my eyes I swept over the stone wall
Which was chiseled with two troughs of blood
I was transfixed, and with my gaze I swept over the stone wall
That is, two grooves of blood
I was transfixed.
My face unfolded like a tree that grows in fire
All was still but the eyes that moved behind the lids
Toward a direction that many are afraid to talk about
And I was a sawed-off pear
On the wheels of the years you can still hear the wind, the cicadas
2
Anyone who knocks on the door and the brass cups still >Language is just a pile of unwashed clothes
Then they are hurt, like a herd of beasts that can't find a permanent place to live
Even if the tree's shadow is split by the sunlight
The height of the tree gives me the coldness that I face when the sun goes down
3
It is as if the roots of a tree don't rely on anyone's will
But they try to hold up a mountain full of depth
It is as if wild strawberries don't depend on the will of anyone
There are many things to do in the mountains, but they don't depend on the will of anyone.
Like the wild strawberry that does not have a eugenic coitus
Lets its children walk through the swamps
Many mornings I have accomplished under the harshness of slavery
The sun bows down to thee, O ye who plant grapes on the rock
When my arm reaches inward to hold the leaping root
I have come to drown in thy blood
To the skin of thy fruit
To the root of thy fruit
To the root of thy fruit
The root of thy tree that does not depend on the will of any man
But strives to lift up the depths of the mountain. For the skin of your fruit, for the dress of your stem
I am as humble as the number on the back of a prisoner on death row
4
Joy is always like the name of someone
Weight lurks in the margins of the unknowable
Grains create danger in the embryo of an illegitimate marriage
They say, "My gesture of licking my tongue is enough to make all the rivers of Amazonia taste the blood of a man
This is what I want. >enough to charm all the red fish of the Amazon
So that every change is predictable
To find the fingerprints of a name that has been teased
To have some custom hidden as a step
If you only want to laugh and your laughter is not pure
I kill all songs, even joy
5
The match is made with a bursting flame, and it is a match that is made with a bursting flame, and it is a match that is made with a bursting flame.
The match embraced the world in a burst of flame
Before the burning of the city, a mob was born in cheers
The snowy season is upon us, and the sunflowers twist their necks in search of the echoes of the sun
I see again, the gloom of the long corridors flashing through the doorway
Going after the pot of hearth
The light is in the center, and the weaving eats the streetlamps in layers
We are indeed for that white, white room
We are for that white room. >We did break our hearts for that white, empty house
Some garments glowed, some faces rotted inside
So many coughs, so many dry palms
Couldn't hold a bit of warmth
6
If Speedy's afraid of my sobriety
Please open the windows to the towns that are or will be dead
No need to go through my short canopies. to rattle the words in my canthus
It's dead
The eyes are the burial ground
Someone tried to draw the first clear light on my forehead
And smashed me like a cliff of ice
By the fireplace, I watched myself turn into a dipper of cold water
Smiling all the while
And running down into your spine, your blood
It's a good thing I'm not a man. blood ......
11
The coffin kicked over the street lights with tigerish gait
It was a strange kind of majesty
As if it were a silk pillow that had been much folded by the women
I went to a faraway place, to find a burial place for myself
Burying a suspicious case
As soon as I realized the value of the ashes, they flew up
squirrel-like, between skin and soul
knowing for certain that there is a dead man inside me
but I don't know your God, as I don't know
The rise of the lotus flower is a kind of desire or a kind of zen
12
Lightning flashes from the left cheek to the right
Lightning flashes from the left to the right cheek.
The clouds split straight down, and when the echoes rise up
The mountains suddenly close in, and hit the pupils of long-closed eyes with a heavy thud
I can smell the putrid smell of time wafting from my lips
And the snow sounds so grumpy, as if it were the skin color of a crocodile
I squeeze my head in a pile of long surnames
Tombstone so humble, holds me in a cold hand
And in it, the snow is so cold, that I can't see.
And cutting another window in its chamber, I read
The pleasure of the olive branch, the whiteness of the garden
Death's voice so gentle as the peacock's forehead
13
They chose the mound thus, and the shy souls
And returned to the churched womb again, with a veil on their face
And I awoke from a huge stone. A boulder woke up and stretched out a palm
to be recognized, and the miracle was only a pile of rotting bones
Someone then tried to release me with the fury of a Michelangelo
I breathed in the good-looking sunlight with the hunger and thirst of the Puritans
Sunlight was written on the face of the winter, and the shadows of the marshmallows and the aster were overlaid
I was like a beast barking with open eyes and teasing the tip of the tongue with the tip of the tongue, and I was like the beast with open eyes and barking. the streets where tongue teases tongue
Many customs are swallowed so that they no longer grow as spontaneously
Many lusts isolate us between last night and tomorrow night
14
You're an unawakened waterlily, a flounder in the summer heat
You're an idle ring finger tramping on a harp
At the first acquaintance between the two hands, between the rose and the rattlesnake
At the first acquaintance between the rose and the rattlesnake
At the first meeting of two hands, between the rose and the rattlesnake
It is the first time that I have seen you in the winter. Between a rose and a rattlesnake
Afternoon in a wheat field abandoned by the autumn wind
You are sure you are the urn of ashes that knows no sorrow
Prisoned in an inner chamber, there is no one with whom to love in the flesh
Death is the flowerpot that breaks, that shatters without being knocked
And sees the blood flow through your skin and stand up after the sun goes down
Why can't you read the fire when the body is burned? the burning of the bodies
Why do you crucify the flow of the nuns' eyes
15
If a grain of wheat were to cry in the rock
And were to be crushed by a movement, or a gesture
I would have the experience of being chewed on
I would be as cold as a mountain of ice Shouting
"Oh! Grain, ye are murdered by the bountiful granary!"
Summer's anxiety still creeps slowly across winter's forehead
Slowly passing between the two walls the gaze, the gaze like kudzu
hangs all over the room, and when the colors approach in silence
When the trifles that ought to be forgotten can't be forgotten and the days are spent in depression
I am known as something meaningless and tired
30
Thirty
When I am called to be as a naked woman, as the naked woman, as the naked woman, as the naked woman.
Sculpted like a naked woman by passersby
I wonder how my flesh took shape in a giant palm
How a kindness was arranged to reveal a mocking smile
First appearing here in this mute chamber
How I mistrusted the peace that came after the fire
Drinking from the river of forgetfulness, have you seen an unbloomed flower floating upstream
Drinking from the river of forgetfulness, have you seen an unbloomed flower floating upstream
Do you see an unbloomed flower floating upstream
Do you see an unbloomed flower floating upstream? An unbloomed flower
The ancients are no longer here, and blankness is still a most touching color
We still raise a mountain before you in song
Without a heart to forsake that one word of the Creator's advice
You shall find that which towers beyond the flight
51
Before you recognize the hand, the door is hidden I leap into your pupil and drink its blackness
You are the root and the fruit, the solidity of a thousand years in one heart
We dance in a circle and take fire from it
And so I burn for the blackness of your pupil
You lay an arbour between your brows. To the morning,
The morning wakes to take the fall of another star
To confirm that the pain is an echo of what came, or a boot print of what went
Then you close and carve your own silence
Oh, silence so that we cannot open our eyes
52
Is being naked the reason for your arrival?
Daughter, I tasted the salt in your eyes before I recognized you
In your mother's womb you learned how to be awake
How to knead time on the couch
And wielded your palm, violently pushing the day into the night
We were given to the light, to the clearness of a lotus flower
We were given to the death, to the stillness in the motion of the wheel.
And you were yesterday's road, one of a thousand ruts
While the dinner plate held your future
You ate ours greedily
53
Constituted by some sleep, a night
You were the beaded mussel, two shells sandwiching the sea's heave
Oh, cries, I for devouring that which has sound Live
And let me step out of your pupils in peace
And let me proclaim to all the hairs: I am this blackness
The world is a broken sleeve, you came empty
Two palms stretched out, stretching to catch the tomorrows
You are the blackness of the first birth, a flash is a feast
The guests look at you with pierced eyes
They are the blackness of the first life. You--
Plant a lily of the valley in your chest
57
The hand that touches a thousand whites out of a thousand colds out of the ashes
Lifts up to become an exploding sun
While the emanation of the projections is still on the ground as a puff of smoke
Then there's a soft writhing And from the spine down to the soles of the feet and up to the top
-a dragon rises
The fault is that all the trees are sculpted into ash
All the iron is appalled by the silence of the axe wielder
He wrings our sweat glands as he wrings the river dry
At the beginning, we were made like this. The beginning has made us look like this waiting to die
Only ashes are the beginning
The Song of Eternal Hatred
The rose, like all the roses,
bloomed only for one morning
--Balzac
A
Tang Xuan Zong
Tang Xuan Zong
Tang Xuan Zong
Tang Xuan Zong
Tang Xuan Zong
Tang Xuan Zong
Tang Xuan Zong >
From the
sound of water
distilled a strand of black hair in mourning
Two
She was
a piece of white flesh
that leaned back there on the first page of the Yang family tree
A mirror rose
in full bloom in the gentle brushing of the
So-called Natural beauty
A grain
of
Foam
waiting to be cupped by hands
Immortal music everywhere
In the Palace of the LIX
Wine flows from the scent of the body
Lips, and after a violent sucking
It is the moan
And the limbs stretched out on a bed of ivory
are
is mountain
and water
One river sleeps in another
The rapids beneath the strata
swell
to
Miles of rivers and mountains
and until a white song
broke the ground
Three
He held up the charred hand
and cried out, <
I make love
Because
I want to make love
Because
I'm the emperor
Because
We're accustomed to seeing each other in flesh and blood
Four
He began to read the newspaper in his bed, to eat breakfast, to watch the combing of his hair, and to grade the sang-fu
Seals
Stamps
Seals
Stamped
Stamped
From then on
The king doesn't have a morning court
Five
He's the emperor
And the war
Is a puddle of
slime that can't be wiped off no matter how hard you wipe it off
In the brocade
Killing and slaying in the faraway land
Far away, the beacon snakes rise, the sky mute in
a mourning mourning heart screaming hair
drums, with fiery red tongues
licking the earth
six
river
still burns between the two strands
battles
can't not be fought
Conquests for the state of the country
maiden The blood of women can only flow in a certain direction
Now the six armies will not be sent
It's just a matter of time, in front of the Mawei slope
You are the poplar floss
You are the one who lifts you up with the gusts of the winds in the square
A pile of costly fertilizer
Nourishing
Another rose
Or
another kind of history
There is no other kind of rose.
Another terminal disease
Seven
Hate, mostly from the fire
He looked out the window
His head
Bobbing with the birds
Eyes, changing color with the setting sun
The name he called
Buried in the echo
And even the sunset circling the room
Every window of the Weiyang Palace
He stood there
Cold white fingers picking at the lanterns
Coughing softly
All the begonias in the forbidden city
Died in one night
Autumn winds
He knotted his beard in one knot after another, undoing it and undoing it again, and paced with his hands up in the air, shoes, shoes
Then he paced with his hands down, shoes, shoes,
He paced around the room, shoes,
.shoes, shoes, an evening tuberose exploded behind the window, then stretched out his fingers and grasped a water sutra, and the sound of the water gurgled
he couldn't read why the river flowed through his palms as a wailing sob, not a roar
he cloaked himself in his robes and rose up
he cauterized his own skin
he woke up out of a piece of chilly jade
thousands of candles burned in thousands of chambers
The bright moon outside the building shines on sleeplessness
A woman walks on the wall
Face in the void
Eight
Suddenly
He searches frantically for the black hair
And she hands it over
A wisp of smoke
It's water that inevitably rises to clouds
It's earth that inevitably tramples into the scorched and thirsty Su Moss
Hidden face in the leaves
More desperate than the sunset
A chrysanthemum at her mouth
A black well in her eyes
A war in her body
A tiny storm that has not yet been brewed
In her palms
She has no more toothache
No more out of
The p>Tang Dynasty measles
She dissolves into the water with a face of relative whiteness and absolute blackness
She no longer holds a dish of salt and cries out for hunger and thirst
Her hand, which needs to be assisted,
tremblingly
points to
a verdant stone road leading to Chang'an ......
Nine
Time July 7
Location Everlasting Hall
A tall, thin, green-shirted man
A woman without a face
Flames that continue to rise
White air
A pair of wings
And
A pair of wings
Flying into the hall beyond
The moon
Colors of the fading
whispers
Twinkling and bitter
Echoes of one or two phrases come from the wind and rain
1972.8.15 -- For Changsha's Li Yuanluo
The old days I used to think of
Yangliu yi yi yi yi
.Today I'm thinking of you
Rain and snow are falling
You asked for the date of your return
The date of your return has long been written in the rains of the Late Tang Dynasty
In the rains of the Bashan Mountains
The rains that carried me across the border
Ran for 2,000 years before it condensed into the heavy snowfall
The snow fell on the Dongting Lake
Falls on the Hueyan Peak
Falls on the window of the unsleeping window of you.
Snow falls
A complex and simple silence
Silence is also like
Your desk gleams with the light of the candle
At first, a cold wind swept up the curtains
I went into the room with a full head of hair, and went straight to your study
It was the first time I saw you. I went straight to your study
Looking up and around, the four walls were bright
Snow whitened my eyebrows
Also whitened
the neutral zone of our hearts
Before we exchanged pleasantries
There was more or less a world away from the world
Well, the smell of the wine on the fireplace
Gradually got rid of the historic chill
You said:
"I'm sorry to hear that, but I don't know if you have any idea about this. >You said:
Wine is the path back home at dusk
Good! Good! I gladly raised my glass
and then coughed heavily
with a strong Hunan accent
only to startle
the cold snow outside the window
flying backward
You and I meet on this snowy night
The thousand miles of the sky have suddenly shrunk to a single inch
The confetti has faded
The flower has been destroyed
This night, we have the opportunity to share our love of the world with each other.
All we have tonight
is a candle to be cut
The candle is short
and the words in the ashes can be heaped up into a piece of history
You often urge us to drink
The conversation starts with a small red clay stove
The drink is a shallow smile
Sighs that are not said
Sobservations that want to be said but cannot be said. It's a pile of old letters
It's the coldness of this evening and the warmth of tomorrow
It's a plate of bacon stir-fried in Poetry Aesthetics
It's a bowl of crucian carp roasted in A Noon Lotus
It's the river wave in your chest
It's the sea wave in my blood
It's a line of Chorian poetry that's more than a tear.
It is the thrill of the fifties
It is the flight of the sixties
At that moment, a rustling sound comes from outside the window
Shush! You listen with a start
Fortunately
It's just a pair of spiked shoes walking through the snow
The snow falls without a sound
The streets sleep and the streetlights wake up
The dirt sleeps and the roots of the trees wake up
The birds sleep and the wings wake up
The temples sleep and the bells wake up
The mountains and the rivers sleep and the landscapes wake up
The springtime sleeps and the seeds wake up
The springtime is the time of the year. Spring sleeps and the seed wakes up
Limbs sleep and the blood wakes up
Books sleep and the verse wakes up
History sleeps and the time wakes up
The world sleeps and you and I wake up
Snow falls silently
The night is already deep
You keep refilling the wine and charcoal
The outdoors is extremely cold
The body is extremely hot
Drink a cup of herbal tea
Let a little sobriety regulate the internal and external body temperatures
Tomorrow may not be so frightening
Because we finally know
Wash your eyes with the whiteness of the snow
Condense your thoughts in the cold of the snow
Myths of yesteryear
What was made up in the past
It's nothing but a bed
Makes one startlingly sweaty at midnight.
We were windswept
frosted
hurt
hurt
pain
persevered and gave up
sometimes with our heads held high
sometimes with our heads buried in the sand
those confusing years
those years of searching for our own shadows by lantern
those years of searching for our own shadows.
The years before the snow was falling
Tonight, I may allow some arguments
Some frowns
Some sadness
There is so much I want to say
More than I can say
Lamentations are sung
What is not sung is sung by the hiccups
They are forced back by the hiccups.
Forced by the hiccups
Jianghu Lake
The winds and clouds are turbulent
Tonight, I braved the snow to come here
I don't know where the shore of tomorrow is
You and I haven't ****ed before
Fat horses and light furs, young men
But tonight, I am sharing a thousand years of the universe's confusion
The world is so ambiguous
Who can decipher the words that I have forgotten to say?
Who can decipher the impermanence of life
Pushing the window, I asked the sky
The sky replied with a bone-chilling wind
The sky said goodbye
In the darkness of the moment when you cut the candles again
I flew up
into a white void
To the sun hundreds of millions of miles away to chase
The answer to the question is: "How can you explain the uncertainty of life? Answer A jujube tree by the side of the road suddenly laughed up in the sky
Come on if you want to eat me
As long as you're not afraid of
Loneliness full of thorns
And the spittle of passers-by Could it be that the
Jiangsu River and Huanghe River, which is in the jug, is in a drop
Lately
I always turn my back on the mirror.
Drinking alone
The two or three events in my chest
Chewing dried squid in my mouth
The more I chew, the more I think of
Tang's poem of the small fireplace of red clay with only a handful of snow
One tilt turns into autumn
And then another tilt, the winter is already deep
Dry
Returning the bottle is only thirteen dollars and fifty cents
I have to go back to the bottle. /I'm sorry, I'm sorry.