? -Haizi
My father, who planted wheat on the moon, was covered with golden sweat. I sat by the dry well in my hometown, blowing the wind in my hometown and looking at the clouds in my hometown. On the haystack, you put away your wings and sleep under the moon, quietly watching your distant relatives go home with hoes, with stains in their eyes that have just flowed, and holding on to your skirts and laughing stupidly. The moon doesn't seem to be sad at this time. I see four people under the moon, the poor and the poor's sons, and the rich and the rich's daughters.
The well I am sitting in now was dug by my ancestors for future generations, and all the misfortunes it gushed out originated from the deep and mysterious tradition in my family. This tradition was passed on from my grandfather's grandfather to my father, and it will be passed on to me in a few years. I sit there every evening, watching the sun sink and hide, watching the sediment merge and watching the wind rush. I thought it would be more emotional to cry in such a rainy place. Who knows the people sitting in the barren hut to cover up their love and future, they let me only imagine.
Love, washed by rain, printed a weapon made of copper and lay quietly in the valley. I regard the wild flowers in the valley as a wine glass for you and me to celebrate our birthdays one night, the valley wrapped in wild flowers as a colorful roof, and the clothes worn by the bride as wild flowers in my hands. Snowflakes fall one by one, you slip away from my fingertips with the wind, and I bow my head and hide in the black shell I built. My brain has become my whole universe, my brain has become the guardian of the border, and my breath seems to only prove that there are flowers left.
In the village, the erhu of the old artist rang again, sobbing, like WU GANG cutting down trees in the Moon Palace, and like Lang Ke riding a horse across the grassland alone. Cloud, quietly hidden in your heart at this time. The open door of your house covers up the poverty of love. When the wind blows, the skin at the door turns green. My mother covered her body with rocks, bones and poverty, and my father worked hard on the hillside, reflecting in the sky like still water. Mother moved to a low stool and sat down with food in her hand, but her eyes fell on me in a daze in the distance. At this time, I am stepping on the dusk, looking at my own love and my old age. The sound of erhu stopped, and the flowers accompanied me like a gentle wife, listening to my poems and articles. Fallen souls sat on their mother's shoulders and kept laughing.
I knelt in front of my mother and begged, and her eyes were full of tears. She picked up a bunch of golden ears of wheat and put them in my hand. I smelled the smell of grains and the tears left by my mother's fingers, and my heart was broken. There is not a cloud left in the sky, like my eternal sadness changed the scenery, and I finally married the bride who had only seen it twice.
At night, my sadness fell at the foot of the bed. Where my hands can touch it, the foot of the bed becomes piles of gold, and the bed board becomes a big bird dragging my body to soar. I saw myself in the golden reflection, and the bitter rain like a squirrel's body was my image. I dozed off in my body for a while and then fell asleep.
In the early morning, I lay in the cemetery, my name was engraved on the tombstone, and my fingers held the wild flowers in the valley, like ten frostbitten candles, growing in my soil. There is the same music in the village as when I got married. I know it's snowing again.