Voronezh love song

Thank you. I bent down and sneaked in again.

Roaming in the cool night like water,

Like a river full of stars.

Is it summer, autumn or spring?

A small leaf is tattooed on your back, not on my hand.

The night is on our ribs.

Expand a nonexistent Beijing city;

At the beginning of the spring lantern, talented people and beautiful women sang across the river.

-is hetian and whose home.

I threw it away again and washed a sleeve in the air.

The texture of the small leaves is scattered in the water drops on the tip of the tongue.

Shake it, and my trunk is engraved with a heart wounded by an arrow.

I once loved that Georgian woman.

I don't ask what happened to the flower I left.

In spring, gongs jingle in the trees.

The sacrificial troupe reached out to pluck the strings on the stamens.

I breathe again, passing away, a part of the fragrant voice.

Thank you for stroking your eyelashes and swimming into my eyes.

I closed my eyes and dreamed of Voronezh, a vast wasteland.

A person walks alone like a candle in order to be blown away by the wind.

200 1.3.20.

Summer, the failed song of mysticism

Should mystics start hiding in summer?

(Where is it? ) where the light spot disappears.

Children are childhood friends, and girls show off their bodies.

Should mystics close their books again?

The shadow of the world ... is a dream too dark.

Today's rain belongs to smarter people.

Brighter hands, brighter seeds that can't be opened

In summer, mystics get rid of all their voices.

The sound of cicadas, the sound of night orchids in full bloom.

Even the sound of summer breaking, the sound of pregnancy.

The mystic is so lonely that he should be silent.

The bitterness of wine and night soaked his stomach.

The flame burns on the blank page, calling

He is so dark that he should be wiped out by summer.

He should be depressed about the happy young generation.

Children are childhood friends, and girls show off their bodies.

The charm of mystics should be buried deeper.

In the age of the blind, the sun had no shadow.

Song dynasty (poetry group)

1. strawberry orchard

-Dedicated to the Beatles

Because of his strawberry fields Forever.

Let me blossom on a summer night in India.

Let me become a baby, lying in the mouth of a grey stork.

Because I'm going to the eternal strawberry garden

Because I'm going to the year when strawberry juice was dyed red.

Draw my face into colorful rain, my singing.

It will fly and become a dancing rainbow.

Then my hand will turn my long hair into strings.

Then my heart will be a bell.

Because I'm going to the mountain where the clown stands.

Let me be those four drunken beetles.

Let's walk and sing and roam the flower heart of India.

Our wings touched the meteor on the sitar.

Let's immerse ourselves in the nectar, and immerse ourselves together.

Let's put down the musical instrument and play the record backwards.

Because I'm going to the eternal strawberry garden

Because I'm going to the fairy tale world played by the magic piper

go home

-Dedicated to janis joplin.

Because she said, "I'm on the stage.

Have sex with a hundred thousand people and go home alone. "

Janis joplin, my mysterious girlfriend.

That night you kissed my silent ear, and you kissed me.

Silent and breathless lips, hands wrapped around strings

Then you go and sing to 10 million hippies.

Then you smile in the wind and the petals are messy.

You said we should be crazy, in this summer sunshine.

But you said fall to me, rise to me, and you said cry baby.

Your tears wet your shirt in San Francisco.

When you turn off the light, sing for me in the dark.

Your voice is broken, and the astringent fragrance of fallen leaves wafts away.

It's not summer now, but your pearls are still shining.

You said burn me and destroy me, and you said the age of crying.

1969 You said I would walk all the way alone.

When you are on the stage, having sex with a hundred thousand red flowers.

I sat alone in the burning house.

I burned the whole world and waited for you to come back in the ruins.

3. Your light blue eyes

-Dedicated to Velent Endergroud,

Because of their "light blue eyes"

Through the velvet tunnel, like a lost stalker

Crossing the golden waters of Takovski.

Through Lou's guitar, through John's piano.

I can still see your light blue eyes.

Even though it is separated by 300 layers of sinking fog in new york.

Even if the flute and drumstick on the strings are broken

There is no joy or sadness in the eyes.

Go through the velvet tunnel every day and sleep in the center of walnuts.

Three million kilometers from the moon, still dreaming of you.

The voice of the wandering world, the voice of loneliness and lack.

Velvet is so moist and eyes are so bright.

I would like to sow my dark body naked like a seed.

Through Andy's soil, through Nico's gravel

Or eyelids covered with poppies

Away from the world for three thousand years, our hearse is out of control.

The rain is wet and the stalker is drunk.

At the edge of the cloud

Or breathe the sunshine in the dew?

I can still see your light blue eyes.

Through the velvet tunnel, no longer knocking at the door of the world.

4. Ten years.

-Dedicated to the Happy Division

Because of their decades.

Ten years, then ten years. How long is ten years?

Shadow play, split sunshine, happy trapped beast.

Who is chasing your every breath?

Who walked past his grave and said I had no memory?

Suddenly Dancing Like Death —— The Tangle of Yu Hua's Peacock

You sleep at dawn and disappear at dawn.

How short is eternity? Please listen carefully-

At the bottom of Qian Xun, your wings set off dark waves.

Bass, bass, bass, eternity is bass.

The bass string rotates and the wind of the reed pipe flies.

Dark clouds can't wait any longer. Death has put on his raincoat.

We will dance the cross, the death knell and the grave digger.

We have to jump over a dagger and fifteen glasses of rum.

"Ten years," sank in a pool of blood, "I am deeply tired."

With the singing, the mountains rose and fell in the dark.

After the fluctuation, the night is closed and the water is exhausted.

1998.2. 15

A letter from the countryside

-Dedicated to Shao Hong.

First sealing

H, I am writing to you in the abandoned garden of my former residence.

The wind blew away the pen in my hand and the writing paper.

It is the wind that carries the tides and tidal words like leaves.

However, the leaves are layered and suck the words away. Just for a moment,

Leaves fall around me. Just ten years.

The fallen leaves when I left have become the roots of my home.

Surrounded by a pericardium as messy as a loose brick.

This garden, its loneliness is like your memory,

Never make noise or cry, just a dead branch on the ground.

Waiting in the ashes ... its breath is in the soil.

Spread out and become the spring water in the trunk.

So I came back today. Take out the dusty old chairs from the old house,

Sitting in the fallen leaves of an abandoned garden,

Read old books and rewrite old poems for you.

The second letter

H, I just got back from the field, and my clothes are all dressed.

Still stained with fine sand on the beach near the village. In the garden

It's getting dark My pen went out when I wrote on the stationery.

Extinguish, like a candle swaying in front of my window ten years ago.

I dare not say, but it still guides my way home.

Like a path in the field: from the river.

Go to the bamboo forest, bypass the farmland and then go to the village;

Both sides are covered with grass, and farmers are always bending over in the distance.

H, this road is now in the moss rubble under my feet.

It is also on this writing paper that gradually darkens, turns yellow and turns gray.

I put my hands in front of my eyes: they are out.

Please keep quiet in the garden. It's getting dark. Don't shine for me.

My eyes can still see, although they are blind;

I can still hear it in my ears, although there are only chilling voices.

The 3rd Letter

Now swallows don't come to nest under my roof anymore.

Now there is only sunshine and shadows in my attic.

Quiet. A gust of wind closed the door with my childhood footsteps.

Another gust of wind opened the door with my childhood laughter.

One foot crossed the mossy threshold and walked out of the garden.

I don't know who he is-he picked up the fallen brick,

Open the spider web and pick up the leaves on the ground;

He took the chair out and sat down, and he cried as soon as he sat down.

H, there are no wisteria and vanilla in this garden now;

Only endless leaves, in the sky, on the ground,

Turning around in his eyes, turning around, burning a little yellow fire.

It's very cold. Except for weeds, there is a gray sky outside the wall.

I walked from corner to corner of the garden,

Whispered to the sky: "One is a jujube tree, and the other is a jujube tree."

The fourth seal

Rain drops on my roof, rain

Today, the towns and villages in my hometown are wet. I like ...

That pile of fallen leaves is also wet, as a poem says, "It's dark and cold."

I can't let them do nothing.

Only my stationery is dry and blank; Rain Water

Clean, illiterate. In the rain, there is only a long closed wooden door.

Rotten wooden pivot, not afraid of cold, has a few white flowers.

H, because my hand touched the white flower and got wet,

My hands smell, too When I walked through the dark street,

Some people who passed by me looked back at me.

These people and I are walking on the same street.

No umbrella, squinting in the rain and fog.

And I, with a letter for you, walked through the crowd,

Like an abandoned woman, I wonder if there are any raindrops falling on my head.

The fifth letter

The wind woke me up again this morning.

I dreamed of your city, glowing with white light in the water.

Stay away from noise. I woke up and heard birds chirping and bicycles.

The sound of my grandmother opening the door. And your footsteps.

I opened the wooden window and saw the yellow bricks and blue tiles of my neighbor's house.

Your city has disappeared from my memory,

I look into the distance-I am no longer a guest in this world.

Tiles are wet in the morning dew, and in winter.

Frost formed deep in my footprints. Deep in my footprints,

The path that the bike passed in the early morning has collapsed.

I never seem to leave, and I never know anyone.

For more than twenty years, thorn has lived in a corner that can't be found on this map.

Submerged under the green algae in a small village pond. The world does not know.

My story, I don't know the world news.

The sixth letter

If I were really a country poet,

What should I write for you? A straw? Sunset? Stream? Architecture? ——

Those are just luxuries enjoyed by travelers.

I only have ashes in my arms: ashes falling from the beams,

The ash left by burning bark, the cold ash in the furnace, taste in your mouth,

The ashes sung in the song. I will touch their darkness.

Write you a short message, there is no poem in the letter-

"The autumn harvest is over and the ground is cracked.

Winter comes with the dream of waking up at midnight.

Dreaming of you in the city, you with braids, you are silent.

The winter wind has blown, the river has dried up and the sand has been exposed.

One of your old photos is yellow and faded.

I can't watch it anymore ... let me blow out the candles,

Late at night, the moonlight shone through the window and my wife was asleep. "

The seventh letter

The wind is blowing from the east of the village, blowing in waves.

Then all the leaves in the garden rustled.

Then it began to rain. Rain fell on the hay, I heard it.

The sound of time breaking in the water, the sound in the snow in the distance.

Birds fly, hover, and then hover.

The cold wind gently lifted my long hair again. A bleak garden

Everyone is shaking. The children next door ran past my garden door.

Run from one end of time to the other.

It rained intermittently, so I moved my chair to the balcony.

The rain stopped. Now, silence comes from four corners of the garden.

I only heard the pen scratching on the white paper.

Next to me is the garden where my mother used to grow roses;

Behind me is my empty home.

The wind is blowing from the east of the village. H, I forgot your name.

The eighth letter

For twenty years, I just sat under the south wall of the house.

In the abandoned garden, listening to the wind in the high treetops. Held many years ago.

Poems brought from afar, empty houses grow old and yellow in the wind.

Far away means a piece of white writing paper with a branch falling on it.

The pen in the dry well. There is another person who doesn't have an address: H.

In the winter afternoon, the neighbor's chopping wood is around.

Disappeared in layers of fallen leaves. In the distance, bicycle bells jingled.

Heart stretch interrupt. I looked up and saw the roof,

Smoke came out of the chimney. That was my grandmother who had died for many years.

Cooking in the cold kitchen again. We'll talk around the fire,

We will burn some old letters in the fire.

In the past twenty years, some leaves and some flying insects have died.

It has rotted under my feet. After writing a poem, it began to rain again.

The neighbor's chopping wood is crisp and long.

The ninth letter

A gap in the old tree. Dry on the windowsill.

Rose petals. Depressed stone thresholds and floor tiles.

There is a spider web floating between the half-open wooden door and the wall.

The forgotten quadrangles are silent, just like us.

In the sunshine under the skylight of the room, except dust.

There is another name that you erased from the letter.

It whirled away. The garden door creaked,

But when no one came back from the farm, Xiang Tao was still sweating profusely.

I found our wardrobe in my mother's old room.

There are my childhood auras and wings in the cupboard.

There is also a photo: father, mother, an angel-like child.

I sat on the porch and watched, and the dusk was as bright as an angel.

Forgotten houses can't hear you cry. Twenty years,

I ran counter to the world and lost myself in victory.

The tenth letter

I opened every leaf to find your name,

Then I am as silent as the soil under the fallen leaves.

The old chairs in the garden are empty, only shadows are left.

Night gradually enveloped my former residence, and I'm leaving again tonight.

But there is no direction, no road. The sky will be full of stars again, and the garden will

These trees lie down during the day and rest at night. The wind is still blowing,

The rain will still stop and the sun will still shine on our hearts.

H, our forgetting or missing may be meaningless:

There is a small town near a corner of this star.

There is a village by the river in the southwest of town, my home.

In the winding alleys of the village.

It also rotates with the stars, with our respective cities.

Love drives the sun, the moon and the stars, and it also drives us.

This deciduous garden, this glorious memory of withered grass.

98.12.13-16. The first draft is in Qiaoting Village, Xinxing County, Guangdong Province.

12.23. Finalized in Hong Kong

A nameless song of love and death.

-Five Variations by Bob Dylan

one

If I stand still like a road sign, will you take me away?

If I play the flute like a crying boy, will you take me away?

Will you take me away? Mr tambourine player, if you forget all the songs.

Your voice is hoarse and happy, like a real tambourine.

It used to jump in Ranbo, Africa, as beautiful as the dance of a gazelle.

I don't want to sleep, and I have nowhere to go unless you call, unless you call.

I will be a drunken boat that you will only forget, spinning, spinning.

If I break myself and sink to the bottom of the sea, will you take me away?

I don't want to sleep and I have nowhere to go. I can't breathe because of the Indian highway.

2

"Shoot him! Happy Indian children. " God said to your guitar.

If I can sleep somewhere and have a dream, it can only be on Highway 6 1:

I heard my memory whizzing by all night, and my lover fell like a star.

Mr tambourine player, I killed a man. He said he was my son.

You can follow my cloak and sing for me.

I killed a man who pulled out a gun at the end of the road.

It can only be on the 6 1 highway, and I had a long dream:

A black bird landed on my brim, turned into a girl and bit my lip.

I killed a man and a bloody stone rolled towards me.

three

Yes, I used to be beautiful, singing the songs of strangers. So what?

I used to be a siamese cat, leaving my smile on the branch.

So what? Like a rolling stone, she erased my name.

I am the beggar who begged her for love, and I am also the man riding a red horse.

A diplomat who forgot the country he was going to.

She is like a rolling stone that sparks, yes, so what?

She is a big girl now, like a brick on the wall.

So what? I walked under the broken wall, waiting for the arrival of black rain.

When the bullet pierced my umbrella, black rain filled my heart like pure blood.

four

Don't worry, mom, I'm just bleeding, hehehe. ...

Look, I can still laugh so loudly! They arrested me. With more laughter,

They broke my guitar, and the black rain would wash their hands.

It was a Kafka morning and they woke me up on the highway.

It was a beetle morning, and they broke my useless wings.

Don't worry, mom, I saw my sister laughing on the train in my dream.

I'm just making up with the prison fire,

When they throw me into the corner like a shadow, I can still sing the songs of my shadow.

Don't worry, mom, they stripped me naked, but they opened the door to the Garden of Eden for me.

five

Are there any fruits in the Gate of Eden? Are there any insects in the fruits?

I just wanted to find a culvert and die quietly, but they opened your door for me.

So that I can remember and taste the taste of blood-red fruit.

Is there an angel in the gate of Eden? Is there a tail behind the angel?

My trial was forbidden, my wounds were forbidden to defend,

I can only sing a sparrow song for you. Sparrows were shot down by angels.

Now I am alone in the black rain, and I am free.

Is there a tree of life in the gate of Eden? Is there a grave under it?

The black rain choked the breath on my lips, just like a woman kissing me on a rainy day. ...

1999.5. 15.