Prose poem: off-road
.
Wrapped around my waist, we rode our motorcycles off-road.
Throw down the city, throw away the messy campsites, throw away the annoying hustle and bustle, throw away the heavens, throw away the hell, throw away the earth. We go off-road, at the moment when the sun and the moon take over, in the winter when we take the baton handed over by the fall.
Like a frightened horse, like an arrow off the string, like an unrestrained wind, like a bohemian lightning bolt.
The fallen leaves were swept away by us with a whirlwind, and the dust was cooked by us with the aroma of oil.
Over the muddy emus, over the winding mountain paths. If a hillside lights us a red light, we are a mighty climbing tiger; if a river shows us a police sign, we are an out-of-control Yangtze crocodile.
Wrap your arms around my waist, don't exclaim, don't close your beautiful eyes. Since you dare to throw admiring eyes at your lover, and since you dare to catch the pursuit that your lover throws at you, you must be able to withstand bumps and shocks.
We are not reckless, we are not risky. We're going to put wings on the spinning wheels. We are surfers, stepping on mountains, stepping on frozen waves.
Love, not the moon season on the windowsill, not the murmur of the moonlight, not the champagne can under the umbrella.
Without falling, without overturning the car, without the exposure of the scorching sun, without being washed by the torrential rain, love will appear fragile and poor. Scraping a little skin and flesh is nothing, a little blood, just a blood oath. Even if it hurts the bones, it is a romantic memorial.
People who don't have scars on their bodies, scars in their hearts – who said that?
There is no person who overturns in love, and it is difficult to guarantee that the car will not overturn in marriage - I think.
Wrap your arms around my waist and let's go off-road.
We go on the Long March of Love, the Long Voyage of Love, there are only two warriors, only two seafarers.
We dance on the earth stage with whirling dance steps; we pluck the road with the fingers of the wheel, the six-stringed piano with the road, the piano without the road.
The giant umbrella of the Metasequoia tree falls backwards, the canopy of the poplar tree falls backwards, and the childishness and fantasy fall backwards.
Oncoming is the ripening of late autumn.
Hair rises like horsehair, skirts rise like flags, and youthful looks rise like a cross-country motorcycle.
In order to make the road of love smooth later, in order to make all the honeymoons smooth, we crossed the country and did not hesitate to raze the mountains to the ground.