1. Manuscript found in a book in Joseph Conrad.
On the shivering summer Yuan Ye,
Pure white light hides the days.
God,
These are blood and tears on the shutters,
The light on the coast,
A fever on the plains.
But the ancient night is deep,
Like a can of overflowing water.
Slightly sunken water,
Rippling out infinite textures.
In that drifting canoe,
Looking up at the stars,
He measured the nothingness of time with a cigarette.
The air is filled with gray smoke,
Blurred the stars in the distance.
Everything in sight has lost its name and past,
This world, however, has some subtle gentleness.
This river is still the original river,
People are still the same people.
2. Poetry given by God.
It is a wonderful irony that God gave me books and nights at the same time.
When I describe his masterpiece like this, I don't think it's a complaint or a reprimand.
He let a pair of lost eyes dominate this vast city,
However, these eyes can only browse the absurd articles in the Tibetan Dream Pavilion.
This is the reward of dawn's pursuit of it.
Countless books and records were donated in vain during the day.
As mysterious as those obscure manuscripts destroyed by Alexander.
There was a king who was thirsty and hungry by the spring and garden.
The library for the blind is grand and profound, and I am busy but aimless in it.
Keywords encyclopedia dictionary, atlas, east and west, century change, rise and fall of dynasties, classics, universe and the theory of the origin of the universe,
It's all on display, but it's useless to me.
I have been secretly imagining that heaven should be like a library.
I slowly surveyed the empty space with hesitant crutches.
Some force that cannot be called coincidence is restricting these changes.
Some people have already accepted the blindness in this vast sea of books and the night.
When I walk around in the closet, I often have a vague fear in my heart:
I am a dead ex, who once stumbled like me.
Although people are different, the darkness is exactly the same. Did I write this poem or did he?
Since it is the same bad luck, it doesn't matter what you call me.
Grosack or Borges are looking forward to this lovely world.
The world is changing and dying in the ashes as confused as dreams and forgetfulness.
3. For the translation of the Book of Changes.
The future is so irreversible.
Yesterday was very hard. There's nothing.
Not a silent letter.
Written in unbreakable eternal scripture
Time is its scroll. People who leave home
Has come back. Our lives
This is an unexplored and unexplored road.
There is nothing to say goodbye to us. Nothing can leave us.
Do not give up. The reformatory is dark,
Strong cages are made of endless iron,
But in your cell,
There may be an oversight, a loophole,
This road kills people like arrows.
But in these cracks, God lurks.
4. The art of poetry
Look at the long river and flowing water of time.
Recalling that time is another river,
You know, we are like a river that never returns.
The face passes like running water.
Realizing that waking up is another dream.
I dreamed that I died without dreaming.
Fill our bodies with fear, but that's all.
Known as death, he comes back in his sleep every night.
In a day or a year,
A symbol of human past and years,
Turn the insults of the years into
A piece of music, a whisper, a symbol.
See dreams in death, in the sunset.
Seeing the gold of pain, this is poetry.
It is immortal and poor, poetry.
It goes back and forth, like dawn and sunset.
Sometimes, a face in the twilight
Gaze at us from the depths of the mirror;
Art should be like that mirror.
Show our own faces.
People say Ulysses is tired of miracles.
When he saw the lush and simple Saga.
I cry for happiness. Art is Sakya.
It belongs to green eternity, not a miracle.
It also flows like a river.
It's the same capricious person who still lives after death.
Heraclitus' mirror is itself.
It's something else, flowing like a river.
Step 5 limit
There's a line in Verland's poem that I can't remember.
There is a street next door, and I can't walk.
There was a mirror, and I took one last look.
There is a door, and I will close it until the end of the world.
Among the books in my library, there is one.
I'll never open them again-I'm looking at them now.
I will be fifty years old this summer.
Keep torturing me, death.
6.the sea
Weave dreams (or horror)
Myth and the theory of the origin of the universe,
Before time enters the day.
There is a sea, there is an eternal sea.
Who is the sea? Who is violent?
Ancient life? It bites the earth.
The pillar is an equally numerous sea.
It is abyss and glory, luck and wind!
It's the first time for anyone to see it.
All the time. With a surprise, this surprise
Something from nature, beautiful
Night, moon, flame.
Who is the sea and who am I? I will be there.
The days that accompanied the pain were answered.
7. You are nobody else.
You timidly begged for help.
Other people's works can't save you.
You are nobody else, you are in the middle of this moment.
The center of the maze woven by your own steps.
Jesus or Socrates?
The hardships you have experienced can't save you.
Even in the garden at dusk
Siddhartha, where Buddhism is boundless, is not good for you either.
Your handwriting, your words.
As worthless as dust
Fate has no mercy.
God's night is endless.
Your body is just time, time that keeps passing.
You are just every lonely moment.
8. Yard
As night falls, two or three colors in the yard are a little tired.
The great sincerity of the full moon
It no longer excites the sky it is used to.
Courtyard, the river of the sky.
The yard is a slope.
It is the channel through which the sky flows into the house.
Silence,
Eternity waits at the fork in the road of the stars.
How wonderful it is to live in this dark friendship.
At the door, between the vine and the reservoir.
9. Separate
Will stand between me and my lover.
Three hundred long nights are like three hundred high walls.
The sea will become a magical land among us.
The cruel hand of time will tear.
Streets that sting my chest like thorns.
There will be nothing but memories.
Oh, the dusk given by sadness,
Eager to see your night,
Depressed vilen, desolate sky.
Deep in the pool, wild animals are shameful.
Like a falling angel ...
Your life adds luster to my yearning.
And desolate and happy streets.
Today shines the light of my love ...)
Like a statue, everything is decided.
Vilen would be even sadder without you.
10. riddle
I want to sing a poem today.
Tomorrow will be mysterious, dead,
Living in magic and desert
On this planet, there is no past, no future and no time.
The mystic said. I believe
I don't deserve to go to hell or heaven,
But I don't make predictions. Our history
As fickle as Proteus's body.
What is a wandering maze? What is this?
Brilliant blind white will be my destiny,
When this adventure is over,
Pay me to experience a strange death?
I want to drink it and forget it clearly,
Forever; But it never existed.