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To the book traveler a light like beans
To the wandering jianghu A home greetings to the wandering son
Give a cup of wine to drown the sorrows of those who are disappointed in their journey
Give a ladder to those who are pursuing a career in the teaching field
Give a warm podium to those who have passed through all the vicissitudes
Give a cafe to those who are in search of a lost life
Give a piece of battlefield to those who are just starting out in the world
Give a stage to those who are breaking into the world. development stage
To the masculine man Bashan night rain of elegance
To the feminine lady wild boat of supremacy
To the vulgar man Yangchunbaixue elegance
To the elegant person down to the vulgarity
To the seafood of a thousand seafood nets
To the sowing of the ten thousand seeds
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Anthology of Zhu Chengyu
Posted by Ah Liu on 2006-5-11 14:53:00
The Scent of Running Flowers
Zhu Chengyu
I have no interest in flowers and plants, I want to remove all of them, his wife said: "The environment here is not good, a few pots of flowers can make the air a little cleaner." Wife is a flower-loving people, get some loose fertilizer, the flowers were transplanted one by one to the new environment, in her careful dill, the dying flowers gradually shake up the spirit. I am quite disdainful of this, thinking that there is no need to keep these flowers for others, wife does not agree with this view, she said she should thank the landlord left these flowers, so that she has a good mood. Wife opened her eyes every day the first thing is to go to the flowers to wash their faces, grooming, happy. My wife is going out for a few days, and when she leaves, she specifically asks me to take good care of the flowers, and every night when she calls me, she asks, "Did you water the flowers?" "Did they bloom? "There are no flowers bloom" and so on, listen to the two ears are rubbed out of the cocoon. However, my wife had to follow the order, so I had to squeeze time out of my precious spare time to take care of the flowers. But they are too delicate, there is a pot that can not be named flowers and began to wither, drooping head, ignore me, ignore the sun. I was afraid that my wife would blame me, so I secretly threw it into the garbage. Wife came back, saw her flowers are full of spirit, spirited look, they rewarded me with sweet words, a few seconds later wife found that a pot of flowers missing, then pulled his neck and shouted: "Where is the pot of orchids ?" I wanted to lie and say I gave it away, but my wife's eyes were aggressive. I was like a child who had done something wrong, not daring to look her in the eye. My wife found the pot of flowers in the garbage. Surprisingly, the pot of flowers not only did not die, but also bloomed with bright little flowers. Wife carefully in the garbage pile pick to pick, fortunately, it was intact in front of us bloom smile. "I thought ......" I stammered, "it couldn't survive." "I planted flowers do not live," wife suddenly sent sentiments, "people still wilt time, let alone flowers. It is called orchid grass, like grass, full of vitality, can quickly adapt to the surrounding environment, even in the garbage, it is the same can bloom brilliant flowers."
Wife Xu is unintentional, but I heard another meaning: wife is a sanitation worker, every morning before dawn to sweep the long and wide street. I had thought of trying to get her to switch jobs, but she refused. "I'm used to it," my wife always says, "and when I see myself sweeping the street clean, my heart is also clean and spacious." "My wife is like that orchid!" I thought. I thought. The setting sun burned red in the western sky, in the brilliant sunset, I quietly watched my wife standing in front of the flowers, suddenly thought of "falling flowers, independent people, rain swallows flying" such a beautiful poem, I think the people who love flowers are beautiful, love of life are beautiful! I like these flowers a little bit. Now I know their names, know their joys and sorrows, cactus ball, cactus sword like drought, sunny place is their paradise, hydrangea, butterfly plums, roses and lanterns are calm habits, those crowded corners of the nooks and crannies into their "five-star hotel". My wife and I in accordance with their habits, take good care of them. Because of these flowers, our windowsill full of life. Bees can not stand the temptation of flowers, drooling swarms of pairs to rush, sentimental butterflies also a pair of a pair of fluttering to ...... in life put on a few pots of flowers, the sun will always be fond and lingering, in the marriage put on a few pots of flowers, will make love forever fragrance pleasant.
Because of the work relationship, we have to move away again, before leaving, the wife to find a piece of board standing in front of the flowers, wrote on it: please take care of these flowers!
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Re:Zhu Chengyu anthology
liudefu (visitor) commented on 2006-12-25 7:17:00
Fallen leaves are tired butterflies
The setting sun is old, and the west wind is tightening.
When the leaves fall, autumn comes with the falling leaves. When the fall comes, people get thin with the fall. Along with the autumn sorrow.
But the golden fallen leaves have no sorrow, it knows how to comfort itself in the autumn wind, it knows, their own slumber is for the new wake up.
Falling leaves have the benefit of falling leaves, you can not have to fall into the entanglement of love, falling leaves have the beauty of falling leaves, it is a tired butterfly. I even felt the falling leaves softly shouting.
At that moment, my heart trembled slightly, as if a staff among the many leaves that have fallen.
I saw my hometown, saw the old tree in front of my old home that was alive and well, and saw the cooking smoke swaying because of the return of the wanderer. For the feet that have traveled far away from home, for the wings that have flown up to the sky, the cooking smoke is a rope that can never be torn off. Just like the big tree at the intersection, its branches point to many paths, and there is only one starting point. Every person who leaves the village takes away a green leaf, but leaves a root behind.
I saw the cliffs of my hometown, and saw the stones on the cliffs, fighting with the flowers to bloom, and saw the sheep on the cliffs, fighting with the clouds to drift．
I saw the eaves of my house, winter ice, summer flotsam full of birdsong, a string of red peppers long seen as a fire in the poor days, guarding the eaves of the sparrows flying, always so harmonious and good life of the family. Always entangled in that heart on the road, is this roof.
I saw my mother, in order not to let us freeze in the winter, she picked up a section of dead tree branches, as if to put those broken days - embellishment. Then, hand over the warmth to us. Mother's stack of firewood grew taller and taller, while mother grew shorter and shorter. The red, dim flame that my mother lit at the bottom of the stove pit became the only shoulder we could rely on in those nights, the only hand we could hold to keep us warm.
Falling back to my roots, am I getting old? We spend a lot of time to fight for wealth, but little time to enjoy, we have a bigger and bigger house, but less and less live in the home, to the moon and then back, but found the home of the neighbors are difficult, conquered the outside world, but know nothing about their own inner world.
What is the voice that makes you invisible, faraway man? What is the wind that blows you to another land? Autumn is like this, the leaves have shaken off, the people's thoughts have hung on the branches. It is time to go back, to see the tree that gave birth to me, let me grow green and let me mature and yellow, and the mother sleeping in the fallen leaves. Mother, my hurried steps are your closely sewn stitches. Mother, carrying tattered baggage, I will return, and I will return when I have found paradise.
A layer of fallen leaves spread on the road home, I will step on the warm carpet to see my mother, my mother is also like this fallen leaves, slowly falling from the brilliant branches. Only, she did not wake up again.
This world can flow in people, not houses, can take away people is not the road. Years can not reach out a hand, for you to catch the passing clouds, if everything can still be picked up again, mother, I'm going to pick up your smile, footsteps and the wind, with your love for the lamp oil, with your goodness to do the twist, I want to light it, put it into the heart, a lifetime of not forgetting the way home.
It was cold, the leaves of the trees fell, and the trees were very close to me. I seem to hear them slowly solidifying.
It was cold, and they stood in rows and rows, and the secret held fast in their hearts ached for a while. But the leaves fell and covered everything.
With the mother gone, the mind had no one to rely on, and all of a sudden there was that feeling of the wind leaking everywhere. But the wind kept blowing, scraping the dust around my hometown clean. My little hometown is being wrapped in autumn.
There is a tree on my mother's grave that I wrote a poem to her. Every fall, the leaves fall and cover my mother's grave tightly. Those falling leaves, moaning slightly in the wind, look like a flock of tired butterflies from afar, quietly gathering the beautiful moments of their lives: a blush, a vow, or a simple sigh.
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Re:Zhu Chengyu Anthology
Serenity (Visitor) commented on 2006-12-24 8:59:00
Fallen Leaves are Tired Butterflies is probably the most beautiful prose I've seen in years, with a remarkable undercurrent. The attraction comes from the title, and after reading the whole text there is even more of a hearty sense of beauty, the text is not lacking in philosophical words, as well as full of delicate and sincere emotions.
--Greetings
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Re:Zhu Chengyu Anthology
ldf (Guest) commented on 2006-5-22 19:38:00
Poetic Firelight
Zhu Chengyu
The firelight comes from the center of the house, the heart of the poor in this winter.
The firelight, like the azaleas when I look up at spring.
The firelight, from the night, creeps over the poor man's walls, driving out all the cold that tries to enter through the gaps.
It echoes the moon outside, making for a wonderful dialogue:
The moon says, "I have transparent fingers that never obscure the tender green luster of a blade of grass.
The fire said, I have only reckless enthusiasm, willing to wither to drive away the cold.
The moon said, I have clumsy fingers that never grasp what I touch.
The fire said, My tentacles are outstretched everywhere, I'll catch the cold and slam it hard.
The moon said, I have soft fingers, and flowers are the rings the earth puts on me.
The firelight said, I can only reflect the smiling faces of the poor and give them a warm pillow.
Firelight, dancing in the winter of minus twenty degrees, enchanting body to make the poet salivate.
The firelight, there for me to keep a secret appointment of the heart: I will never see again, the Andersen who planted countless fruit trees and a large garden in my dreams.
He used the ugly duckling to arouse people's pursuit of a better life, and used the last match to light the lantern of human truth, goodness and beauty.
Shortly before his death, Hans Christian Andersen told a young writer, "I have paid a great price, one might even say an inestimable price, for my fairy tale; for the sake of the fairy tale I have denied my own happiness and missed such a time, when, in spite of how potent and glorious the imagination may have been, it should have given way to reality. "
This is a summary of his life of love ups and downs. 17 years old, Andersen fell in love with the translator's daughter, but the other family members died consecutively, the girl was depressed all day long, and finally took the ship burned in the Atlantic Ocean, Andersen was grief-stricken and wrote poems in memory of him. At the age of 25, Andersen fell in love with a rich girl and was abandoned. Later, during a journey, a rich girl fell in love with Andersen, but by this time Andersen was already immersed in fairy tales, he said, my love is in the fairy tale, and rejected her, but Andersen missed her for life. The 40-year-old Andersen and the Swedish singer Linde acquaintance, the other has been regarded as his "dear brother", although the feelings are good, but the two are living a travel-style life, to the old have not been able to end up in love. In 1875, at the age of 70, he died alone, not at all in his fairy tale of those wonderful ending - "from now on live happily ever after".
The firelight, when it creeps up on the faces of the poor, is full of warmth.
It leaps and makes the whole stove hot for it. It is like lips coated with hot passionate words, like a chest filled with infinite enthusiasm.
What a dark night it is, when one sits in silence and the firelight bounces on the walls. What a beautiful night it is, one is forgetting, and the firelight reminds one of one's weight.
By the light of the fire, I told my daughter:
"Now the sun is rising from the sea. The sun shines softly and warmly on the cold foam, and the little mermaid does not feel perished. She saw the bright sun, while above her fluttered a myriad of transparent, beautiful creatures. Through them she could see the white sails of the ship and the colored clouds of the sky. Their voices were harmonious music ......"
By the light of the fire, I told my daughter:
"'Grandmother!' The little girl called out. 'Ah! Please take me away! I know that as soon as this match goes out, you will be gone, you will be gone like that warm fireplace, that beautiful roast duck, that happy Christmas tree!' So she hastily polished off the rest of the matches in the whole bunch, for it was very desirable to keep her grandmother ......"
By the light of the fire I told my daughter:
"Every tree and every kind of flower has a name, and each of them represents the life of a person; these people are still alive, some in China, some in England, scattered all over the world. ...... But this sad mother stooped over the smallest of those plants and listened to their heartbeats in silence. Among these myriad flowers, she can hear the heartbeat of her own child ......"
The firelight, not the heating ducts that gush about three meters underground in the city, is the free-flowing bird of prey that is responsible for connecting to spring.
It does not compete with the electric light, it only sings in the darkness, when the poor lay their dreams to rest, giving the night a heart.
When this heart fails, I always try to resuscitate it, and a piece of firelight the size of my fist is carefully preserved, and as kindling, it must control its combustion effectively. I added coals to it bit by bit, and finally saw the resurrection of the dead, saw the starburst, and it allowed me to experience a process of life.
Against its welcoming chest, I lit a cigarette and sucked greedily on the fire in one puff, which then quickly scurried from the hearth into my heart.
The firelight, trapping and searching for the past on my walls, like the shadow plays I loved as a child, brought me imagination of the future and visions of warmth.
I can't forget the humble son of an alcoholic washerwoman, who told me so many wonderful and sad stories, and on this white wall, the firelight kept illuminating, but no matter how much it illuminated, it was always the shadow of Hans Christian Andersen. He told me: there will be a time in life when the snow accumulates, but also a time when the grass is green; there are laughing faces, but also weeping faces; there are lucky collars, but also cruel clutches.
The firelight, which will eventually coalesce into the sun on a winter's morning, and the yolk-like sun will eventually ignite the poor man's imagination of warmth. Sure enough, near the end of the dream, I saw a boy and a girl going around the graveyard, laughing and going forward. There was a gate in front of them, the gate of the sun, and when it opened, the heavens and the earth were red, red, red.
No one knew that that crimson redness of heaven and earth was lit by a little fire in the night. It makes me believe that those who go out from this winter are destined to carry a lifetime of cold, and the hearts that are lit by those fires are destined to exchange the warmth of the whole spring
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Re:Zhu Chengyu Anthology
liudefu commented on 2006-5-11 15:02:00
Giving pain an outlet to flow
Chengyu Zhu
Dante wrote in the Divine Comedy-Thirteenth Song, "The harpy bird feeds on his leaves, gives him pain, and gives pain an outlet ...... "To release the pain of the skin by the pain of the flesh inner pain, the depth of the pain is evident.
In Guatemala, there is a small bird called the Lok Sabha that has to be called for seven days and seven nights before laying an egg. Since birds don't have midwives, the bird has to cry in agony all night long. But it is precisely because of this painful seven days, so that the eggshell becomes hard, the little Lok Sabha hatched out also harder, this is a mother through seven days of pain in exchange for a child's healthy tomorrow, and that completely non-stop wailing hooves, Lok Sabha in another way to release the pain of the physical body.
Compared with this little bird called Lok Sabha, mothers nowadays are much happier. Human beings have midwives, human beings can caesarean section, you can not go through great pain to hear the child's cry on the ground, however, this painless labor will leave some regret, it is far from the kind of pain in the heartbreaking experience after hearing the child's cry more moving, far from this time to feel more proud to be a mother, the tears at this time is the real "pain and happiness" tears. The first thing you need to do is to get your hands on a new one, and you'll be able to do that.
I know a middle-aged man, stout, black and strong like a tower. He was a music teacher at a little-known school, teaching elementary school children the basics of music theory and leading them in innocent rhymes. In one classroom, he carried an accordion that had been used for many years, flying merrily like a bee. When the childish songs burst from the chest of such a big man, it was a bit funny. His students loved the teacher, who was as pure as they were, with such sincerity and joy.
Until one day, the students saw something they could not imagine: the music teacher was leading an older boy, a little taller than himself, in the playground blowing colorful bubbles, the older boy was seventeen or eighteen years old, but he grinned with the joy of a three- or four-year-old child written all over his face, through the strange, different.
The big boy was the son of a music teacher, and when he was born, he was also a white, chubby, pink and cute child, and when he was a toddler, the music teacher was accompanying his son's steps with musical notes. But after the child reaches the age of three or four, his physical development grows stronger and stronger, but his intellectual steps stagnate. Few parents would be able to face this situation with equanimity - the child is a congenitally retarded child who will always be at the intellectual level of a three- or four-year-old.
The otherwise handsome and hardened music teacher was drained of his heart when he learned of the result. But he had to face the son who only played happily on days when he was three or four years old, and as a father when his own heart was dripping blood at times, he had to make that child as happy as any other child.
How much the music teacher had toiled for this more than any other father, outsiders could not know. But even after a long day of lessons, tired and angry at the disobedient students, as long as the music teacher's face looks at his child, his eyes will be full of warm flowers.
In the days when that mentally retarded child was growing up happily, the music teacher also faced it all with joy. Some say he had bawled his eyes out countless times, but his smiling face would always rise with the sunrise; the students said the music teacher would slowly dip his eyes in glistening tears as he led them in song, then go to the corridor to stand alone for a while, and when he came back, he would open his arms again and say enthusiastically to his students, "Come on, children, let's sing once more 'The Ode to Joy!"
The music teacher's heart was in pain, but he found outlets to let the pain flow, and like a rubber tree that takes everything every day and stitches up its wounds every day, he kept releasing his inner pain with love.
An ancient Greek poet said, "There are countless cracks in me, leaking everywhere." This is the most powerful interpretation of tragedy. Tragedy is tearing open wounds for people to see, and these waters that flow through life and leak out of life can make wine, intoxicate people, wake up the world, and wash the heart. These pains pierce the body with holes, but sublimate the soul.
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Re:Zhu Chengyu Anthology
liudefu commented on 2006-5-11 15:01:00
Flowing like water
Recommendation: ★★★★★ By Zhu Chengyu
Life is supposed to flow quietly. If you try to run faster than the wind, you will lose your straw hat; if you try to catch up with God, you will lose your mind. The benefits of walking are: it allows us to approach each leaf carefully, and discover the happy trembling of the leaf; approach each flower carefully, and learn the shy secrets of the flower. Listen carefully to the time "drip, drip, drip, drip", as if the rain is leaking, as if making a long poem without rhyme.
The quiet flow of life is a very poetic flip. All the days together are a book. I read it carefully and write it respectfully. Some days will become a wonderful and gorgeous chapter, some days will become a landscape; some days are the rosy blossoms, some days are the silence behind the leaves; some days are sparkling with light, some days are cool; some days are a word of warning, a standard word, some days are a simple punctuation, a kind of symbol of attachment. Whether the book is deep or shallow, I turn through it reverently, as if I were turning every page of the Bible.
While I can still long for, and remember, the waters of my life are flowing. Holding Proust's "In Memory of Watery Years," I sailed from morning, ferry-like, into midnight. In between there is no noise, no distraction. When the dust of those who have passed away from the body, the soul a little bit of peeling off, there can be a few people think that the dust is behind the pile of a tomb! Only running water can erase it from the earthly world without a trace. Like in the workbook to erase the mistakes we have made.
If a hot and bright bulb will make the night burn faster, then I'd rather light candles and let the plants in this darkness shed tears about growing pains. The candle's growth is to keep fading and fading, and in the end it condenses into a puddle of tears, like regret, like repentance. The Russian Lev Shestov, in his Ode to the Ungrounded, mentions that philosophers celebrate the tranquility of the mind as the noblest and most worthy goal of our existence, but then animals deserve to be our ideal, because nothing can be better than them in terms of calmness. We may as well look at the sheep or cows grazing, they neither recall the past nor envision the future, but live entirely in the present, and a good pasture is all that is needed to make them completely satisfied. After all, man is man, and man can never attain a plant-like tranquility within himself. People have quarrels, people have countless troubles, people have to look around for jobs, to feed their families, people have to make money by all means, people have to live decently, people have to leave a good name after death ...... pots and pans, on and off the job, wind and snow, go to bed and get out of bed. People in this world to go back to always leave a back, or great or humble, or vivid or stiff, or condensed full of wisdom or through the stupidity, or full of dark incense or cover the vicissitudes of ...... human desires and vanity led to a penitent black hole. A person's life, how much desire and vanity probably have to bear how much heart debt, the modern human heart is afraid of a most difficult journey, from one heart to another, probably only "in the water three times, in the alkaline water boiled three times, in the salt water pickled three times" (A. Tolstoy language) this road can be from the clamor to quiet, from turbidity to clarity, from the muddy to the clear, from the muddy to the clear, from the muddy to the clear, from the muddy to the clear. From turbidity to clarity, from complexity to simplicity.
"......I don't want to surge, I just want to flow quietly." Writer February River after becoming famous due to the frequent disturbance of journalists can not feel at ease writing, had to issue such a sentiment. February River's feelings I do not know how many people chasing fame and fortune can make shame? Mr. Qian Zhongshu's life is also for the media reporters set up heavy fences. He just didn't want to detach himself from the life of ordinary people, doing things calmly and peacefully.
Flowing like water is the life of an ordinary person. Every day repeats almost the same thing - eating, sleeping, going to work, there will be a ripple of happiness in this quietly flowing life, such as the unit issued a bonus, today's weather is good, the flowers in the yard bloomed, a small pigeon broke out of its shell and so on. What flows like water is a life full of love, which has torn emotions with every leaf and every flower. For example, a few candies carried back in a father's pocket for his children, like a mother's finger pierced by a needle, like the sound of a piano on the ruins and the singing of the poor.
I wish the train at dawn would slow down, even though the end of the line is a throne, a scepter, a palace covered with a magnificent carpet, a paradise. I still wish the train would slow down. Let me read carefully the gracious backsides, caress some of the fish that move the heart, and let them moisten the emotions that modern man carries in his pocket.
Shedding the trappings of my soul, I will be as still as water.
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Re:Zhu Chengyu Anthology
liudefu commented on 2006-5-11 14:58:00
The Dew of Life
Zhu Chengyu
A drop of water beside the young girl converged into a shower that poured down, washing away the steps to heaven. The steps to heaven are washed away. When the rain stopped, the pigeons came back. The snow-white dove seemed to melt little by little in the sunlight, and it flew up abruptly, shaking off a few fluffy feathers in the pure air, and gently and softly landing on a soul that had just been extinguished.
I think of that morning when everywhere was covered with dew. The young girl held a leaf and gently sucked the dew from it. In the foggy morning, I seemed to see an unearthly spirit, I did not dare to make a sound, I was afraid of the earthly clamor to disturb her.
I gazed y at her, at the gracious drops of dew around her.
She moved, just gathering her hair in her hands. I thought she was going to fly away, look how light her feathers are!
She saw me and smiled at me.
"Murphy, are you an elf?" I asked, rubbing my eyes.
She smiled brightly, drawing the sunlight in all at once, as it stretched out and fought her for dew.
"If only I were really an elf. That way, when I go, mommy won't be so sad." She became sad all of a sudden.
"Go? Where are you going?"
"To heaven... Mom and Dad won't tell me what I have, but I know I have a terminal illness. They say if I keep drinking the dew every morning, I'll be cured, and it's been a year, and I always come here before the sun comes out, and if I'm late, the dew will be drunk by the sun." She resumed her happy mood.
I dared not imagine that this immaculately beautiful maiden before me was terminally ill. What a beautiful cloud she was in the world! She reminds me of the birth of a baby, so pure, so peaceful. At the moment, her pure soul is speeding against the blades of grass, and in no way can one believe that death is chasing her behind.
This is the last day of my seven-day vacation, and my life has become exceptionally alive because of this last day of my seven-day vacation. I had come to escape my troubles, in the vain hope of defeating a rumor with a seven-day holiday. Now, feeling all my worries washed away by the dew, while feeling the freshness and pleasure of life, the maiden said, "I have lived six months longer than the doctor predicted my death, I have created a myth, what reason do I have to be unhappy?"
The young girl eventually went, very poetically, to her appointment with God in heaven. If one were to explain death in terms of a young girl's optimistic thoughts, I think she would say, "Go late and the steps to heaven will be covered with moss."
Facing death so peacefully is another myth created by the young girl.
I went to her grave and sprinkled the dew I had collected drop by drop. I wanted this drop of water around the maiden to escort her pure soul to reach God's garden peacefully.
At that moment, I seemed to see the maiden's angelic figure and never-fading smile, while I was sad. Now I know that all I need to awaken my withered, wilting years is her lips, to gently call out my name before this night passes.
She responded! Under the clear sky, a cloud drifted by leisurely, it brought a rain. I knew that those raindrops were her words of comfort. I'm not sure what I'm talking about, but I'm not sure what I'm talking about, and I'm not sure what I'm talking about.
Besides, the conversation between us has never stopped.
I asked her, "Why is the sun always fresh every morning?"
She replied, "Because the sun washes its face with dew every morning."
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Re:Zhu Chengyu Anthology
liudefu commented on 2006-5-11 14:56:00
Birds are God's Guests
Zhu Chengyu
It seems that all that can be seen in winter are shivering crows, cloaked in thick snow, traveling from tree to tree, picking all the cold branches and refusing to roost.
It reminds me of my mother, of a time when I was old. Because of the exhortation, its voice is hoarse, because of the search, its eyes are darker than the night.
The crow, which has accompanied me on many paths, is thus gradually thinning, like a drop of ink, being quietly sucked dry by the boundless snow.
One morning, one of my blue pigeons died, its stiff body congealing into a tiny statue on the eaves of the house. The midday sun melted a little of the snow from its head, flowing over its sad eyes and over its delicate beak, as if it were weeping tears.
The dove died, and its gaze still clung to the sky.
All my life, I have never lost the memory of this weak pigeon, which used to bloom its wings freely on the sky, used to weave its song on the sky, and once made a teenager write his first poem in a melancholy twilight because he heard the whistle of a pigeon.
At last it came, holding the cuffs of spring and forcing the cold to give way.
At last, it comes, a sharp pair of scissors, to cut the last umbilical cord associated with winter and give us birth.
The swallows, with their proud breasts, glistening in dark green, crossed my room without a care in the world, and I felt happiness tiptoeing and nudging my door.
The swallow flew lower and lower, closer and closer to the human heart, and it told me that spring was already in bloom in my hometown.
The sparrows are the most mundane group of rakish matrons in this summer.
They are in groups of three or five, for the triviality of a chicken feather gathered in a large tree meeting, and for some small rumors scattered. They never migrate, and they keep their homes, and they keep fluffing their nests with soft grass and happy sunshine. I gently closed the window, not to disturb them to pick up their own home, the roof of the smoke straight straight, I heard their happy quarrel.
More than any other bird, the sparrow spends more time squatting on the ground, carefully picking up life.
How many sparrows are there on that tree in one ****