"Homeland Sadness"
Ximurong
The song of the hometown is a faraway flute
It always sounds in the night of the moon
The face of the hometown is a kind of blurred despair
It's like waving goodbye in the mist
After the farewell
The hometown sadness is a tree with no yearly cycle
It's not old at all
The hometown sadness has been a great success for us, and we have to be careful. p> Never grows old
"In the past, I went away, the willows are still standing; now I come to think of it, the rain and snow are falling." I came from the Poetry Scriptures, elegant, elegant, dashing, pulling a round of bright moon, carrying a wisp of breeze, looking for the woman who picks the willow.
Where are you? The willows are flowing with the wind, just like your long hair, dancing for a lifetime of lingering. With a whole afternoon, quietly on a pool of autumn water, until the twilight. The chrysanthemums on the south mountain have bloomed yet? A drop of tears, rolled down the cheeks. The sun is like blood, look at the flat lake, a lonely boat, paddling a thousand years of loneliness. Where is the autumn of the old garden? Only such an autumn heart, rippling lonely pianoforte. The water to listen to the piper, a round of bright moon, a number of slanting willow, there will be infinite poetry and picturesque.
The moon in front of the bed, like frost is not frost, raise the head of a deep love a look, head down, speechless lovesickness. 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 am the hometown of who? Only a handful of daisies cold fragrance, light, cold refreshing the heart, through the bone, cold heart. The moon in another country is bright, the guest in another country, the festive season is near, what happened to the loved ones? I've never heard of them. I often remember when I was young and climbed up to the mountains, the wild chrysanthemums bloomed all over the mountains and fields. The first thing you need to do is to get your hands on some of the most popular products and services in the world.
Heart, is a map of the old days, slowly open, is full of smoke, the wind of the Tang Dynasty, the rain of the Song Dynasty, the Qin Dynasty, the bright moon, the Ming Dynasty and the Qing Dynasty rivers and mountains, one by one. Love, is an abandoned net, net tattered old dreams, with the sound of water, cold, flowing through the city abandoned by the years. Autumn has been deep, the night is slightly cool, a piece of yellow leaves, dancing with the wind, in the sky to draw a beautiful arc.
The long embankment of the lake, long and long, strolling between them, as if into a distant time tunnel. Embankment, newly planted a lot of trees, there are valuable coniferous fir, broad-leaved 'camphor', the ancient gymnosperm ginkgo, there are many trees that can not be named, so that this is an idyllic riverside, a little more modern garden atmosphere. Riverbank slowly into the lake, bend down, you can reach out and touch the water in the silk algae, cold, clear, occasionally visible shadows of swimming fish, you can also see the fish and leap out of the water dashing. Autumn clouds like smoke, like fog, like fog, so misty, psychedelic.
I'll take a short walk on a wildflower and see the tears that flow from the flower. How many countries have broken down, the rise and fall of the world, cohesion into a drop of tears, in the heart of the flower, rolling. The grass and trees also have heart, gravel also have feelings, just understand the people since understand, do not understand the people, effort, but also can not read the mind of a cloud. Think of that put out the sky beacon, just to get a smile of the king of the red face; think of that wrote a lifetime, but can not send the love letter; miss a flower, a lifetime, lonely bloom and fall. The moment, eternity. Life is just a breath of time, the moment is too long, the moment is too far, not as good as quietly watching a flower blossom, a butterfly dance, beautiful, thinking of each other, is a lifetime.
The monk's hut, cold lamp, night, sleepless. The first thing you need to do is to get the best out of the world, and then you'll be able to get the best out of the world. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to do that, but I'm going to be able to do it, and I'm going to be able to do it. You and I are the world passers-by, such as flowers, such as leaves, such as clouds, such as water, such as a grain of sand, a bit of dust, so gathered, scattered, I do not know where is the hometown, I do not know where is the way back.
In this life, I just want to be a Zen person, idle clouds and wild cranes, not for people to stay, dashing between heaven and earth.
Two
The calendar turned over one, and another. Along the thin line in the hands of the mother, looking for thousands of years of nostalgia. Everyone, but is a wanderer, with a lifetime of lingering to miss, the mother's warm embrace. The pins and needles of time, in our bodies, I will be full of holes. Endless thoughts, written in the wind, written in the rain, written in the depths of the night. That a deep nostalgia, separated by thousands of mountains, separated by thousands of waters, separated by thousands of years of smoke and clouds, night after night, such as the sea waves surging on the shore.
Four Rhymes of Nostalgia
Yu Guangzhong
Give me a ladle of Yangtze River water, 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, ah 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, ah Begonia Red.
Give me a piece of snowflake white, snowflake white,
Letter like snowflake white,
The waiting of letters home,
is the waiting of nostalgia,
Give me a piece of snowflake white, snowflake white.
Give me a Lap-mei fragrance ah Lap-mei fragrance,
Mother-like Lap-mei fragrance,
Mother's fragrance,
is the fragrance of the countryside,
Give me a Lap-mei fragrance ah Lap-mei fragrance.
That cloud, can it come from the hometown? The geese, a goose, can be from the hometown to fly? The first thing you need to do is to get the message from your hometown. Sitting alone in front of the window, looking for words about my hometown. The osmanthus tree in my hometown has not yet bloomed. The fragrance of osmanthus, which is far away and rich, has perfumed my words and stayed in the dreams of the wanderers. How many young left home, the old generous back. How many country voices murmur, as in a dream. Childhood playmates have become strange uncles, young lovers, are married to other places. The only children around, with timid eyes looking at me, can vaguely see the appearance of their fathers. The original life, is a reincarnation.
Climbing over the old ridge, over the old mountain, close to a touch of heartbeat, there is a little love timid. People can't step into the same river twice, the old love, the old love, the old love, are like water, far, passed away, leaving behind, this or thick or light memories, beautiful in the depths of space and time. Do not dare to ask, do not dare to see, do not dare to think about it, let this memory, brewed out of the mellow old wine, drunk with the wind that comes to the west.
The mountain road is far slanted, outside the green hills, in the green hills. The boat is lazily crossed, outside the green water, in the green water. The red dust ferry, how many people can safely swim across, how many people fell into this, how many people, in the unfinished love in the bitter cry? The tide came, washed away the deep and shallow footprints. Perhaps, one more step forward, on the sea and sky. Perhaps, if you hold on a little longer, the wind will be right and the sails will be hanging, right? The moon rises in the sea, a goose flies over, the sky has no trace, but leaves a wail. Lift up the blackness of the night and look for the dawn. Open the jar of memory, looking for the rain and snow of the old year, I want to make tea, on this day cool good autumn! Bubble on the bright moon, bubble on the river wind, bubble on the lake and mountains, with you *** drunk three thousand field!
Spring flowers, autumn and moon when, only the acacia has not been idle. Why don't you find a band, string these acacia, stay in the winter when the fire, sipping wine. The first thing you need to do is to get your hands on some of the best products and services in the world, and you'll be able to do that. Capture a piece of red leaves, carefully write your name, banished between the mountains and water, so that the love with the flowing water, sent to the distant you. Jade flute often blowing, sound twanging, from the lonely courtyard floating out, neighboring girls such as jade, heart secretly promised, with whom? A song of lovesickness, sent to the moon, the autumn wind blew, scattered to do the yellow flowers all over the ground. In the dream of the old garden, where is Irena? The light is easy to throw people, the old autumn wind, change the face.
Three
Nostalgia
Yu Guangzhong
When I was a child
Nostalgia is a small stamp
I am at this end
My mother is at the other end
When I grew up
Nostalgia is a narrow boat ticket
I am at this end
My bride is at the other end.
Later
Nostalgia is a short grave
I'm on the outside
Mother's on the inside
And now
Nostalgia is a shallow strait
I'm on this side
The mainland is on the other side
Smoke rising from the thatched cottage, my mother's faraway call, and the warmth of my father's hands are still in my dreams. hands, still in the dream. The hometown, is a complex, is the depth of the heart, can never be erased memories, is the blood flow code, no one can solve.
The childhood in the mud, the summer in the pond, to forget how to forget? Only in this bone, engraved, branded imprint. When the swallows come, when the geese return, they will be secretly hurt floating. Dew from this night white? Is the moon bright in the hometown? The more a person grows up, the lonelier he gets; the more a person grows up, the farther away he gets from his hometown. Sisters are dispersed, friends are separated, parents are getting old, the days to go home are getting more and more rare. How many times can we see our parents in this life? How many people go home once a year? And how many people have not been home for several years? The first thing you need to do is to get your hands dirty.
The sun is sinking in the west, a touch of afterglow sprinkled on the surface of the lake, the sky light and clouds, you can vaguely see the opposite shore of the pagoda. In the lake, it is the Xiaoxiang night rain, right? The rain is hitting the banana, poignant. How many beautiful stories, in the mouth of the old people legend. I miss the days when I was herding cows and listening to the old people slowly tell stories, but when I grew up, I realized that they were all gone. People and stories, all faded from memory, no trace can be found. Where is the countryside at sunset? A river of smoke, a cold wind, a few cold crows. "People say that the setting sun is the end of the world, but when I look at the end of the world, I can't see my home. I hate that the blue mountains are still blocked by the twilight clouds." Lift your eyes, the river water three thousand miles, stretches endlessly. The sea side of the pointed mountain, like a sword, far from the impact, and is extremely deep internal injuries.
Autumn rain, like tears. Dots and dashes, in the autumn leaves gently walked through, quietly rolled into, that pool of autumn water in front of the door. The first thing you need to do is to get your hands dirty. River into the wilderness, a piece of autumn sound. The weather forecast says that it will be sunny in my hometown. I think that the hometown of the bright moon, the moon under the landscape, deep courtyard quiet, small court empty, friends and family are sleeping, crickets chirping.
The chrysanthemums are yellow, the autumn mountains are clean, the autumn water is thin, I ask the pedestrians: this year's Mid-Autumn Festival, return or not? The river is full of smoke and waves, and the waves are full of cold smoke, and the world is full of autumn.
Four
Under the Full Moon
Yu Guangzhong
Full of moonlight,
no one to sweep,
then fold a broader lotus leaves,
package a piece of moonlight to go back,
to go back to the Tang Dynasty poem.
Flat,
like pressed acacia ......
moonlight are with the fragrance of lotus leaves.
The sand is like snow and the moon is like frost. The cold dew is silent and wet osmanthus flowers. The old garden looking east, Hengyang geese go, Nanyue clouds come, this is not intended. I would like to come to a pot of wine, with this light sadness, light lovesickness,
Bubble a pot of poetry, drunken drinking. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to get a good deal on this, but I'm sure I'm going to be able to get a good deal on this. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to get a good deal on this, but I'm sure I'll be able to get a good deal on this," he said.
The dead vine, the old tree, the bright moon, the bridge, the flowing water, the breeze. The first thing you need to do is to get a good deal of money from the company. The thought is a thin horse, walking in the wilderness of space and time, hiding the wild, fading away the splendor, so lonesome, in heaven and earth to step.
The first time I saw the movie was when I was a student at the University of California, Berkeley, and I was a student at the University of California, Berkeley. The most memorable ones are the ones that you don't want to remember, and when you do, it's a burst of pain and a burst of blossoms. Life is always difficult to forget each other in the jianghu, that the cross sword to the sky laughs at the intention, can only be in the dream. Tonight, drinking alone under the moon, drunken flowers, alone and elegant. Lift the cup to invite the moon, the shadow of three people, in fact, life's confidant, only this bright moon only.
I sing the moon wandering, I dance shadow mess, to be empty, see you are you, see me is me, no emotion that is sentient, empty that is ten thousand colors. The fact that you have to be able to get a good deal more than you can afford is not a bad thing. A bright moon is born on the sea of the heart, let it light up this fall. Clothing out of the yard, heaven and earth an empty, bright and free, dark fragrance floating, bamboo shadows across, why split his hometown and hometown.
The fireflies are playing brightly with small lanterns, flying through the shadow of the trees, flying through the fields, flying into the small courtyard, flying into the curtain bar. The evening clouds closed, the day more and more cold, the moon more and more bright, years and years are similar, next year may be better to see. Yesterday at the Qujiang River, today in front of the water museum, Ming in the monk's hut, the moon is the same as a thousand years.
The moon reflects a thousand rivers, a thousand rivers of bright moon. Autumn wind, the water is thinning, the mountains are getting cold, swinging a lake of silver light. I'm not worried or afraid, I'm not happy or sad. My heart is like the bright moon, the sky is the end of the world **** this time.