Return, no wind, no rain and no sunshine

"Homecoming" | text: Guang Rui

"All the way, all the way"

/01/

The years are silent, for the joy of geometry, open the dusty diary, the pen and ink are full of deep and shallow interlacing, a few hesitations, a little prosperity, a few vicissitudes, a few bumps.

The seasons follow the wind into clouds, and the seasons and rain condense into light and shadow, and I don't know who overturned whose golden years.

Yang Liu Yiyi, now I come to think, draw the sword and dance, dance a butterfly love flower, flowers and flowers flying in the sky; lead to a high song, sing a Yang Guan Dao, the Road is not exhausted. Hurrying too fast, before it was time to embrace the morning sun, it was already sunset; before it was time to appreciate the autumn of the forest, it was the winter day of snow. Return, no longer lonely mountains and rivers; return, no longer seasonal reincarnation.

/02/

Carrying a wisp of herbs and a bunch of shooting stars, a touch of moonlight slid into the heart field, flowing through the fine stream of years, and falling lightly in the most beautiful Shaohua. Whether you want to or not, everything in the past, or sorrow or joy, or glory or humiliation, or parting, or meeting, is ultimately a season of flowers, turning into a moment of light smoke and dissipation. Return, no ping water meets, return, no other passer-by, return, no need to cling, no need to grieve.

Time is stranded on the other side of the flowing year, pinching a bouquet of love roses, bright as fire, white as snow, slowly into life, into memory. Under the acacia tree, we pick up red beans together, string them into bunches, form a ring, bring them to your head, bring them to me in your hands, no matter whether the coming day is long, whether the future is expected, return together, even if the world is unpredictable, even if the frost and wind and rain, even if the years are getting old.

All the way to the trek, all the way to the wandering, a journey of landscape and a word, a group of poems floating and sinking. When you go back, there is no wind or rain or sunshine. The past has gone, the past is gone, and the slanting sun is still leaning on the head. Go home, listen to the fishing boat singing late, and watch the cold river fishing alone. Go home, in the cold winter, find a quiet day, or drink tea, or bask in the sun, or stay quietly, half drunk and half awake and half immortal.

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author

Pen name: Guangrui, because he does not want to be a tree without thought, wants to be a thoughtful person, so he fell in love with words, and words have a kind of power.

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