Today, Xu Zhimo's birthday, I think of him, and tonight you think of who
Today is an ordinary day; today, it is an unusual day. Today, it is the birthday of the poet Xu Zhimo, I think of his "Farewell to Kangqiao", think of his "Accidental", think of his "I Don't Know the Wind"...
"Dreaming? Hold up a long penny, slowly trace to the greener grass, loaded with a ship of starlight, and sing in the starry glow. He returned to his motherland with the ideal of individual liberation, but the cruel reality of old China shattered his dreams. In the autumn of 1928, the poet returned to England, revisited Cambridge University, and on his way back to China on November 6, he composed the poem "Farewell to Kangqiao" on the sea of China.
I like the faint sadness in this poem, I like the endless reverie of running by the quiet lake, I like to sleep on the head pillow of the poem under the lamp covered with light veil, and I like to tear up the paper for a touch on the moonlit night like water.
In the beautiful poems, I look for Xu Zhimo, and I also look for poets with the same feelings as Xu Zhimo, and I think of their stories, and my heart is like a tidal wave.
"Once the vicissitudes of the sea were water, except for Wushan mountain is not a cloud", because of Yuan Shu's "take the second flower bush lazy review", I am sad and full of knots; "the night came to the dream of returning to the hometown, the small window, is dressing up", for the "nowhere to say desolate" in Dongpo, I can't cry.
Life and death, death and life, life and death, death and death. The living and the dead, in their dreams, looking at the end of the world, their hearts broken. The mountains and rivers are wide, life and death are vast, and the people of Yi are haggard.
This time, how can I get a sad word?
Like a stone, it is thrown into the heart lake, and ripples are formed. Xiao Xiao's wind, from the west window, I saw the geese crossing south, a terrible cry like a cuckoo crying blood.
"Yellow flowers are piled up on the ground, haggard and damaged, who can pick them now?"
The wind of thoughts passed through the night, and the memory was the most painful. The flowers withered and could not bear to look at, and the red face was exhausted by anyone who had pity? How can we not be sad and heartbroken if the country is broken and the family is dead and the relatives are buried for a long time?
The old garden is no more, the green is no longer fat, and the red is no longer thin. All the poems were once the glory of Gu Pansheng in front of the red candle, and the warmth that was once there has been carved into an eternal golden stone. The most distant distance in the world is not the distance between trees and trees, but the branches that grow from the same root, which cannot be held together in the wind.
Who in the cloud sends the Book of Jin?
Although Jinshu was there, I didn't see my Lan Zhou.
The thousand-year-old evergreen ancient willow, have you ever heard the oath that Lu Youjin is difficult to trust, and the mountain alliance is still there? Mottled ancient palace walls, have you ever seen the lone shadow of Wan'er's lonely slanted railing full of sorrow? I wanted to lead the red crispy hand through the spring, summer, autumn and winter of life, so that people's life road bloomed purple and red, but it was helpless that the east wind was evil and the joy was thin.
"Spring is as old as ever, people are empty and thin, and tear stains are red and sold out."
"People are everywhere, today is not yesterday, and the sick soul is often like a swing."
Lovers who are really attached to each other are always torn apart, asking the vast earth, and the earth is speechless. A beautiful love, into the pain of Lao Yan's flight.
The grass of Shen Garden withered and was glorious, and the yellow and forced emerald green of the sky could not hide the bloody "Wrong!" wrong! Wrong". The love is still there, the heart is still deep, the end of the world is at hand, and a decadent wall is sent to lovesickness.
Yin and yang are separated, death and life are different, it is a pity since ancient times, but they are clearly in love, but they have to say that they cherish and cherish... Who can hear the tearing sound of the separation? The fairy magpie in the Tanabata Moon, or the soldiers and horses on the slope of The Horse Ridge?
I rolled my sighs and was devastated.
"But I can't sing songs, and quietly is the parting of the sheng zhen; the summer worm is also silent for me, and the silence is tonight's Kangqiao!" The poet returns from fantasy to reality, the mood drops, and the sympathetic summer worm seems to have experienced parting feelings, and it also remains silent.
In 1931, Xu Zhimo was killed in a plane crash, and he really came quietly and went quietly. He did not take away a cloud, but left his exquisite poetry manuscript "Farewell to Kangqiao" to the reader...
Remembering a sentence said by Lin Huiyin, the poet Xu Zhimo, people are gone, but his poetic soul will always exist in the world.
The Buddha said: If you love someone in this life and have no chance to be with her, you plant a tree for her, then the next life will really become a tree, growing next to the road she must pass every day, taking root and sprouting for her.
Thinking about it carefully, I can't help but be relieved. Life is a love obsession, and this hatred is not related to the wind and the moon. Wenjun can be a butterfly, and Liang Zhu can be a butterfly. Life and death, the farthest distance in the world, the heart, can walk through.
Dead. I was sleepless, quietly missing someone, silently taking him to heart. Honey, who do you miss? Who do you think of?