Letters to the Family NO.1 If it is your happiness that I am alive, then I am alive, and I will live my life to the fullest, and from now on, I will never go to a strange street, never look into the misty distance, never go to a noisy city, and never be alone, but all lives die, and if my death is your disaster, then tell me what to do, and I will not be alone, and I will not be alone, and I will not be alone, and I will not be alone, and I will not be alone, and I will not be alone, and I will not be alone, and I will not be alone, and I will not be alone, and I will not be alone. I want to tell the world about me, but all I can think of are tears, the leaves of autumn, the little cocoons that cling to the trees, can you tell me which butterfly from the summer, can you tell me which flower from the summer has fallen, can you tell me which flower from the summer has fallen, can you tell me which flower from the summer has fallen, can you tell me which flower from the summer has fallen, in the vast grassland, I'm alive, but I can't help you, I can't help you through the winter, and I can only wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. I can only wait here for next year's first flower to open quietly, for next year's first butterfly to fly by, as it should, and for the first butterfly to fly by, as it should, and for the first butterfly to fly by, as it should, and for the first butterfly to fly by, as it should, and for the first butterfly to fly by, as it should. When I'm alone, I think of your name, of all my relatives, of all the people who have given me a lifetime of smiles and tears, and now it's winter, and the days are getting colder and colder, and I know how you feel, and every time you go out, there's a cold wind blowing through your heart, so once you've accepted my goodwill, accept all my soft feelings, and I know that I can't bear too many storms and too much dark weather on my thin shoulders, and I don't want to make you look forward to the future in the midst of the storms, just like I did. I know that the passage of time will change everything for me, when my feet are barren and your world should be green, what can I say? The world is pale, my heart is still the same, old souls will pray for your happiness, but they won't make a sound. I long to see you, my dear, as a happy child sleeping in a warm bed, or lingering at home, to see your cheeks rosy with health and strength, and like a pair of natural children entwined around you, to see you plucking the golden strings of poetry, and singing of the female sheep of my mountains, or picking up the tender cradle with you, and how your heart must be full of the joys of little motherhood. Thy golden wreaths of wheat, thy dreams of joy, have blossomed with the petals of grapes, and who hath given thee the power to keep thy cups full all the day long, and I know that thine heart is filled with disappointment and bitterness, and more with remembrance and passion, and that thou shouldst not be suspicious of the tumultuous waves of the night, and shouldst not be frightened by the darkness of the other side, and like Helo be drowned in the ocean of misfortune, and my kinsman, the lamps of the sun have been blown out by the winds, but the stars are not out of their appointments, and I now light them, and the night is a night for all. The night is a quiet sea, my loved ones, go well. NO.14 In the spring rain the flowers bloom, the trees begin to grow, for I have come to the hill because I miss it, for I shall live there, no matter what the world's pains and joys may be, you are my ideal, you are my strength, what is the magic of the grass, what are the hints of the water, what is the light of the morning winds, which mingle with the earthly mind, and what are your beauty and tenderness, like the god of wandering waves, like the god of joy, like the god of the sea, like the god of the sea, like the god of the sea, like the god of joy, like the god of the sea, like the god of the sea. For I have come to the hill, for I have come from the distant meadows, and I have called your name, and I have gazed upon the light that shines upon your face, and I have gazed upon the green that hangs upon you, and there is no rich or poor as the red wine, and there is no high or low as the ship that comes to shore, and for I am going to dwell in the hill, and even though I am haggard and thin, even though I am old and dim, even though I am old and dim, you will still be as bright as light, and still, as beautiful, as intoxicating to me, will be as beautiful as light. I'll stay on the hill for ever, and for the sake of your zeal, I'll keep time in your name, and send my bravery and sincerity to your dreams, and to earthly sleep, and to the shrine of divinity, and leave behind us our unbreakable oaths and fidelity. I am a poor man of leisure, moved in silence by your warm approbation and revelation, gradually accustomed and changed, like a wanderer approaching the end of his journey, and at last realizing the weight of your lifelong commitment. I no longer hope to approach the God of beauty, who is too mysterious and too heavy, but only wish to live positively with you, in order to find relief, and to be thankful for that, just as a mother's toil does not make a life perfect, but it does make toil and suffering easy, so that it is a satisfaction to live like this, when all the sins have been silenced, and slavery and indifference have ceased to be in my blood, and we are left with what is left. When all sins are silent, and there is no more slavery and indifference in the blood, what we have left is sobriety and honor, which the heart has proved to be clear and true, and I no longer think of cutting through the thorns and thistles alone, for with thee I am less likely to follow the stream, for it is the life of a man to whom purity, and any glittering, passes away, but the toil and the ease of it, which, though they are not distinguished, yet retain their purity and steadiness, and without literary skill, yet leave behind them their kindness and their splendor, as in the happiness and joy that haunts thy gaze, as in the holiness and the cheerfulness that always beat upon the heart of my being, and which is always open and shut. I have finally realized the weight of your life's commitment, and the nostalgia and passion I left behind in the grasslands, on the mornings of your travels, on the bridges where the sun dances, on the rivers where you baptize, where the layers of dusty resentment and expectation have just been wiped away, No. 27 Evening, my coat and my life, you are born at last, like the stars in the deepest room, like the light of the winds blowing from the east, you are here on earth at last, and I should burn candles and sing to you. I should have burnt a candle for thee, or made thee a crib, that thou mightest not be stirred up like a bird, or put forth my hand and sleeve, and led a man to tell thee of thy coming, or closed the door, and talked with thy mother in her eyes, * * * * and enjoyed thy heavenly blessings, and ceased to be in the misery of this world. But, my child, though the window be gay, and the grass is green, I am weary with my heart, because of thy weakness, because of thy mother's difficulty in bringing thee into this world, and because of the sorrows of my mind and body, and because of the fear of thy mother, and because of the sorrows of my body and soul. When I was at work in the dark, I asked God over and over again to give you health, as he gave me flesh and blood, and I would give my health for your health, my life for your health, and I would give my life for your health, and I prayed that you would grow up in peace, and be free of your congenital infirmities, free of disease, free of itch, free of bitterness, free of joy, free of sorrow, free of self-sacrifice, and that your coming would be enough to make me shout and sing, and that you would be my life, my son, my life. I would do good deeds, and I would burn incense to make you true to your body and soul, and I would accept your life, and I would accept your life, and my blood, my life, my life, my life. I'll accept your life, the sorrows of blood and the joys of providence, but you'll give me the moon in my arms, the wind in my sleeves, the sunset in my arms, the countless flames on the prairie, the billions of years of night, the billions of years of darkness, the gloom of banished souls, all illuminated by the wandering flames, the light of which countless lives have searched for, the flames of the sun, the passion of the moon. The flame is the ashes of the sun, the passion of the moon, the thirst of the flame into the flower of death, into the confusion of sacrifice, into the sea of dreams, and like a reserved and crippled butterfly, the cheeks of darkness are gently plucked, and the home of all things, in the darkness of the night, enters into deeper thought, and into the memory of the night, and if it is the hand of a wise man that is stretched out, there is another that holds the pot of wisdom, and strikes the heart of the night beforehand, and the fires of the earth and the stars of the sky, and there is no light which cannot be expressed, no sin which is not illumined, and no beauty which is not closely connected with sacrifice. There is no need for sacrifice, no need for sacrifice, no need for the flames that burn so fiercely, and the world is just a pile of ashes that will burn out, and who knows the sound of the toppling of the bird that burns the forest, the fish that abandons the water, and the man with a bleak callous, the man with a lofty heart who will throw his head and his gold with ease, are the ones who pursed their lips in the boundless night, who ran so fast, and they are the ones who taught me to wrap my loneliness tighter in a deeper place and to bury it deeper in the bottom of my heart, are the ones who taught me to put my aspirations on ice, and to put it in the heart of the night, and to put it on ice. To leave my aspirations on the ice, my heart in a knot of solitude, to listen to the bells of prayer, to hear the chimes of prayer, and to lose them in the cold smoke, this fire of loneliness, this fire of poverty, this banner of sacrifice, and these bones of suffering, are they not with me, the ultimate tenderness of pain, the tearful eyes that whisper to the flame, the dream that breaks in my arms, the blood that flows through my body, the skin that eats, and the skin that flies, and then, at this time, they all linger on the bough of fire, and then move away, the misery that is mine. When beauty is swept away, and then we come back to gather up the wages, and the face of beauty is cold and discouraged, what a false burn it was, and even in my old age, I can hardly be yoked to it. The face of beauty provides a place for the loss of endless lives, and it is only this flame, which illuminates any false encounters, and which takes back simplicity, and which gives back to the fire the coldness, and which talks to the lips, and the face to the face, and the fire, which can never hold a drop of sorrow, in the embrace of love. Sorrow, in love's embrace, knows no sin, one firebird is born, the other must die, and I know nothing of the cruelty behind this ancient legend, and the beads of the moon are scattered one by one, and with their soul-destroying whispers of splendor and goodness, they penetrate the coldness of the breast, and I see the flame's skirts fluttering to and fro and the lives of countless men revisiting their old dreams, and I hear the gloom of banished souls whispering in the meadow's night, and I see that the face of all is covered with the light of this moon, and that all the faces of the world are covered with the light of this moon, and that they have been brought back to the earth. I see all the faces drenched by the moonlight, wrapped in light clothes, waiting to die, and in the night, in the night of the prairie, in the night of the prairie in autumn, the flaming dresses float around, and I see the noble smiles that never sleep, and I see that the goddesses of the flowers, though they die, leave behind them a fragrance, and that the cool winds, which are the temporary deaths, calm the minds of all things, and revive them, and make them rise, and the beautiful flowers, which are withering away, are not without sorrow, and the beautiful faces are not without pain, as they grow old. The beautiful flowers, when they fade, are not without pain, the beautiful faces, when they age, the beautiful dreams, when they are shattered, are not without lamentation, but only in the night of the meadow, in the mourning before death, when all the stars of wisdom hide behind the night, it is the wandering flames that keep me from forgetting the beauty of yesterday and the joy of that beauty, and if the earth is full of thirst, the rain becomes a pain in the skin and soaks into the fruits of life, and pours into the cups of the darkness and the cups of the dark, and if the life of the dark, if the life of the dark is full of confusion because of high leisure, and if the life of the dark is full of confusion, and if the life of the dark is full of confusion. I am the fuel of this fire, not only for your happiness, not only to save the songs of the season that the winds have sent away, but in the meadows I look forward to them, I long for them every night, and the hand that arranges the flowers has taken away the sun's sinking body, and although the dream is still far away, there is the sound of the fire that rushes up from the bottom of my heart, from the veins of the earth, and it is the burning of the naked stone, it is the burning of the transparent stone, it is the burning of the transparent stone, it is the burning of the naked stone, it is the burning of the naked stone, it is the burning of the naked stone, it is the burning of the naked stone. This is the burning of the naked stone, this is the burning of the transparent river, this is the burning of the beautiful moonlight, this is the burning of the bones of the soul, and when life is no longer a sacrifice, when the square of heroes is no longer made of bones, when the hymns of praise have left the smell of power, standing at attention and at rest, this lonely flame will burn not only to correct, criticize, or negate, but life will not only be in the blood of faith, but it will not be in the blood of faith. And life will not only be humiliated and struggled in the blood of faith, but in the flames' repeated walks and statements, she will be heralded more by rebirth, by the freedom of life, by the bursting of firewood, by the flying of white bones up to the sky, by the night's splendor, by the path of calmness, by the path of light, by the way in which she seems to constitute the whole of life, the whole of innocence, the whole of simplicity, the whole of purity and innocence, the burning of the light, the cradle of the rock that I have reset, swinging between the heavens and the earth, making life even more sacred, the beautiful flower. O beautiful flower, when the setting sun is taken away by the hand of the flower-arranger, the countless flames that roam the prairie, they are not the world's last glimmer, they are the flames that burn in the embrace of the night, they are the flames that roam, and fill my heart, and the autumn mushrooms seem to make a snowy racket at my feet, and the cheeks of youth fly away under the light of the fires, and the dreams that are so near and yet so far, and the place of all things that live under the light of the fires, in the boundless night of the prairie, there is nothing but the fire, the fire, the fire, and the fire. In the boundless night of the steppe, there is no sound, no sound, no sound, the barley in the wilderness has ripened long ago, and the barley wine dinner is far from being ready, and only in the bursting of the firewood can they rise. Through the window of the years, I see them being mowed down in bundles, lying madly on the cold plateau, and I understand from their tired bodies that the first dance of life has already exhausted the light of the first look, and the red shadows of the images that are moving in the beautiful glasses at the dinner party are all for this remnant of the past, and they are all for the present, which is the most important thing. The red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, the red shadows of a dinner party, all of them dancing and drinking for the warmth of what is left of them. At the sound of the prayer bells I awaken the daughters of poetry, the stars are my house, the sea of grass is my bed, I raise my cup for the happiness of all life, I burn the firewood for all displaced souls, in the northeast of the Tibetan plateau, in the vast grasslands of Gannan, when the setting sun is taken away by the hands of the flower-arranger, the life around me is overflowing with the scent of freshness, and the spiritual family members have brought me endless preserves from the songs of autumn, and the sleeper birds frighten the moon, the autumn worms chirp the frost, and the prayer bells echo with the wind, and the winds echo with the winds. Echoing ...... ...... Enchantment The sluggish carriages of the dusky prairie are driving the warmth The sky is clear, as if paddling waves of air Pure, natural, and fluid. Livestock. The ecstasy of life, the beauty and the despair, the spiritual sanctuary that cannot be named, it is the sluggish caravan, on the dusky prairie, in the dignified spiritual sanctuary, in the arcade of the sanctuary, that broods, resurrects, and ascends, high above all, and above the lives of the camping people, as the caravan travels along the prairie, the path of conversion, full of meaning, and the golden halo on the neck of a social numbering horse, when, exhausted, she bends her knees to the yoke of the spoked, golden caravan, like a totem of the tribe who have not changed their chastity, but are no longer as light as the wind, but are still as chaste, and are no longer as light as the wind, but are no longer as light as the wind. No longer light as the wind, but long since removed from the certainty of truth, the dust that breathes in me has aroused fear and anxiety, and the toil is heavier and more fierce, and I fall on my knees to the yoke of the sunken cart, and whenever pain and disaster come, the cart is always shaken, and the dust is gone with the wind, and from wilderness to wilderness, the scarlet ravens are held aloft, and they are pushed from the heavy shoulders of their Maker, and pushed into my chest, and with greased bones, they activate cold blood, and they see life, and they see life, and they see life, and they see life. And the sleep of life they see, the scarlet and the smoke of the wolf they see, the birth they see, are but half of a long life's summit, which they cannot forsake, much less keep, and the sluggish caravan, through the silence and the weariness, seems to bring germs and anxieties from Quisimane, and the sluggish caravan is never at rest, and is not to be mastered by weak wills, and in the arcades of the Holy of Holies, where the sheep are led by the masters, the snowy spirit that the crowds are pursuing is annihilated, and the mighty power of the snow is lost in the confusion and the confusion, and the snowy spirit that the crowds are pursuing is lost in the darkness. And through the intoxicated void the lofty crows hover, and their flight, lifeless as it may be, will perish if you do not ride with them, young bloods, whose sins were forgiven you in life, or if I am old, but I pray the Holy Church to give me good heirs, to keep my spirit, which is indeed lost, and to dwell forever in mercy, and to give birth to the boiling blood and tumult of those who have suffered a palace torture, and who have been made to suffer the death of the Lord, and who have been made to suffer the death of the Lord, and who have been made to suffer the death of the Lord. The hardy who have suffered the torture of the womb, the wise who have taught me the scriptures and the intellect, which I had once recognized, but which have finally faded away, never to be found, and which no longer nourish in my heart the chances of a reunion, and a deeper purpose which seems to be like fire, and which, when it comes, I know will depend on myself, and not on the young citizens of Paradise who are to live forever, and of course, what I must believe in, is that the heart, which has no mind, never becomes dignified. And I must also believe that a mind without a heart can never be dignified, that it does not depend on economic power, but only on reverent faith, who can read in this silence the joy, the remembrance, the enthusiasm, the followers of fire, and I must believe in the dignity of the heart, and in the earthly world, that the tiny ones who pass the walls of despotism and the arrogant ones who are arrogant in their blindness, not in their material armor, but in their deep spiritual joy, are not the saints, who will leave their quiet labors and carve at the stake the name and the name of the man, the man who is the most powerful, and the man whose power leads to the fall of power, and who will not be able to live without it. Power leads to power, and when it is held in the breasts of the enslaved, the silence overflows with flattery, and the revolt against the revolution is the deep and cleansing baptism of the Holy Spirit, and when the words of the dead leave a void, and when I cling to the yoke of a sinking car, their thoughts, which outlast all life, and when the world is too steeped in dictatorship to be tolerant, and life is too unwilling to react to confinement and despotism, then the earthly love, and even dignity, and even fantasy, will lead us into a place where we will be able to live, and not in a material armor, but in a spirit of deep joy. Even illusions lead us to the exit where first the heirs of the land, and secondly the reactionaries of the land, have brought about the establishment of the sanctuary, and where the principle of the inalienability of the land has finally been verified in our labors and accepted by history, where those with ardent ideals and good qualities, those elements of liberty, those philosophers, who have obeyed not their own glory, but the lowest and most sacred commands, have supported the first mercies of mankind, not the first and most sacred commands, and the first and most sacred commands, and the first and most sacred commands, and the first and most sacred commands. Not in the flames, but in the early spring, in the dusky meadows, where the buds of treachery, as if to soothe the poor, and as if to keep the blood unsullied and baptized from the games, in those calm streams, where the plea of heresy is not yet drafted, where the lonesome fighters are excellent, and the hesitators are the hearts of those who are far away from strife, and where the bells of eternity strike, and where my soul is y hidden, and where sleep is so crowded that it can hardly be a moment's sleep. The will flies alone when sleep is suffocated by the crush, not light as the wind, but long gone from indolence, and there is no dreamless sleep, for fire and sword destroy each other, and the paymaster holds the torch, and the strength of the whole comes not from the tops of houses, but from the vital walls of the land of China, and the dance and the exaltation of ankles are more than the blazing heat that crushes the blind spots, and forms the solidity of the lower structures, and in the grassland at dusk, I am the only one who has ever been in a state of fear, and I have never been in a position to be in a state of fear. Along the sunken ruts of the carts, my breast is full of strength, and indeed I am not here to hear prayers any more than the hardy who have suffered palimpsests, I am not the strong, nor am I a sacrifice for the blood of the strong, but when the twilight carts ride high above the earth, and waver between the doom and the birth, the deathly stillness is stirred, and the hardy listen with tears, and when the carts crunch through the wilderness and over the spreading passes from the shallows, even I am borne to meet the fruitful coming of the people, and I am not a man who has been born to the world. Fruitfulness comes to us. Livestock. Even if they are not annihilated, they must be saved by their own fortitude, and in the dusky meadows, under the arcades of the sanctuaries, firewood is piled up for the last supper, and the land and the milk cannot be taken away, and the sluggish caravan can take away only the dust that is as unending as the sorrows of the men of ideals and good qualities, of the lonesome fighters, and when the power leads to the power of the power of the power of the power of the power of the power of the power of the power of the power of the power of the power of the power, only the sanctuaries of the land stay on the earth, and the beauty and the timelessness of the beauty and the timelessness of the beauty and the timelessness of the beauty and the timelessness of the power of the land. And beauty and eternity, too, in the desolation and exhaustion of a sluggish wagon on the steppe, a mind without a heart, is always just a grain of sand in the constant motion of the wagon, and that grain of sand and the skin of the sheep is always overflowing with decay and injustice and tormenting the hearts of the hardy, and whenever I bow down to the golden yoke of the spoked wagons, and I'm no longer as light as the wind, and I don't want to bide my time to the sound of iron wrought in the valley of the Sumerian, then, those who soar far away from the forests and who are proud of the game and who have sent their elegance and their grace to the despots, we are the only ones within the walls of the city, we, the only ones within the walls, we, the only ones within the walls of the city. The lone survivor within the walls, all we can hold on to is the dance of the fire and the sword, and I am old, and I can no longer play the music of the heavens, but I am a follower of the fire, and I am a follower of the life of the will, and if I cannot push the sluggish caravan overboard, I would rather die with it, and on the path of conversion, which is full of meaning, walk the lonesome fighters, whose ankles bleed from their elevated feet, and whose payrolls, though they hold their torches, can never sing again, as if for the sake of the blood to be spared, and the blood to be spilt. As if to keep the blood undefiled, the earthly race seems suddenly to end, and life alone above death, and above fire, and above paradise, in the dusky meadows, when the sluggish carriages drive the warmth, and the scarlet lifts the distant crows, to dance or sing, but not to quench the fire in their breasts, for this world is not to be robbed of life but life, and far from power and race, and my ecstasy comes from the carriages of the high heavens, when the pains and the calamities come, and the wrought iron of the valley of Sumeria. Whenever pain and disaster come, the sound of wrought iron in the valley of Sumeria hits me in the flesh, and it is the carriages that I shake that I cling to, and it is because I am alive that I cling to my ecstasy, and it is because I am alive that I bend my knee to the yoke of the land sinking with its golden spokes, and it is because I am alive that I bend my knee to the yoke of the land sinking with its golden spokes, and it is because I am alive that I bend my knee to the yoke of the land sinking with its golden spokes.