I love the grass in the woods
Fragrant grass
They kiss and giggle
No more abundance
Balmont | grass in the woods
You carry my dreams
Poet | Neruda
I love you
It's not about treating you like a salty rose
Or hummingbirds or caryophyll arrows shot down by fire
It's about seeing you as if you were between shadows and souls
Something dark that is secretly loved
It is to treat you as the one that never blooms
But the plant that secretly sucks away the light of the hidden flowers
Thanks to your love
Something that rises from the earth
The solidified fragrance lives darkly in our bodies
And don't know why or when and where
I love you frankly
Neither complicated nor proud
So, I love you
It's because I don't have any other way
Except for this
Where there is no me, there is no you
So close
When your hand is placed on my chest
It's mine
When I fell asleep
Your eyes are closed
”
That's fine
Poet | Yu Xiuhua
“
Yellow spring is gone
There are also thick birdsong on the branches
Birds cannot be heard
But there was a dewy morning
That's not bad
This morning is not hometown
It's on the way
That's fine too
I don't know where you are
But know that you are in the world
I was at ease
I don't know who you're talking to
But know the accent you use
As if I could hear
There is a lot of sadness in the world
I'm not all for it
Maybe you'll get it
I slowly realized that I loved poetry more than ever.
In a world where only the soul sings, the seasons are not always distinct. I listen to the sound of snowflakes falling in the spring, step through the scorching sun to the green meadows in the winter, taste the bitter wine lost when I sleep in the crook of my happy arms, and step on the thorns in the ivory tower. Life drenches me, and I go to ignite a new time, without hesitation, without looking back.
I slowly realized that I was more attached to my hometown than before.
Because it is too four seasons distinct. Spring shakes off cold frost, willows sneak into cuffs, summer has no air conditioning, autumn sweeps away unclean leaves, winter is thick snow is lonely is a broken crowd and heated isolation from the cold. Thick dust obscures beauty but does not hinder the cleanliness of the heart.
That's fine.
It's just that I can never find a poem that belongs to my hometown, and I can't dive into the resonance of the chapter like sinking into a young dream.
A piece of land the size of a palm, like a stone, I often forget, but I tripped over it again and again; like a ticket stub on a return trip, carefully sandwiched in a book many years ago and forgotten forever; like a vow, or the cry of a child, and your "goodbye."
Maybe you'll get it.
Share your recent unforgettable landscapes
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Editors | delighted
Image| Jose Portillo
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