In the evening, I went out for a walk, and when I saw people, I hid far away.
I hope that in front of me is a vast prairie, but I only see a cluster of February orchids. The grassland can bend the bow to shoot the big eagle, and in February Lanbian can crouch down to take a photo.
Reading Jin Yong's novels, I love to read the part where Zhang Wuji was forced into the cave by Zhu Changling. There was an exit in the cave, it was too narrow, Zhu Changling couldn't get over it, but Zhang Wuji climbed over. Out of the cave, he found a world with a cave sky. Waterfalls, flowing water, green trees, wild fruits... Here, Zhang Wujie eats wild fruits, drinks stream water, catches fish and grills to eat, sleeps on stones, and listens to the sound of water flowing.
This is clearly Jin Yong's version of the Peach Blossom Origin, and perhaps everyone has a Tao Yuanming living in their hearts.
Mortals are in the midst of the hustle and bustle, and their hearts are in the best of their minds. Immortals travel to the Immortal Realm and love mortal dust.
Between heaven and earth, society cannot escape the siege.
There is a clear lake in front of you, weeping willows blowing short embankments, like smoke like silk, and the wind posture cannot be described in words.
Perhaps, even the most beautiful Tang poems may not be able to describe their branches and leaves, and I can't help but think of the poems written by some rioters who read in some groups.
I am most afraid of reading ancient poems written by modern people, even if Lu Xun and Wang Zengqi write them, I can't bear to read them.
It is best for people to write modern poetry.
Although poetry has lost its soil for survival, there are still good poems.
For example, Teacher Ye Qingrui's "New Year's Words":
Words of blessing have been said to be exhausted Spring Lian's face is blushing, firecrackers are obedient, dead or alive, refuse to open their mouths, sit in meditation in a moonlight, and stay at home, all curled up in a mobile phone, the circle of friends is full of wine and snoring, and the eyes that look forward to spring are finally boiled into a pair of lanterns The night sky of the New Year A bouquet of fireworks Blooms with some luxury
There are not many good poets, and I am grateful for their perseverance.
And then we're going to read a so-called modern poem published in the only national journal of poetry, The Poetry Journal, called "They Don't Sleep": They Don't Sleep, They Make Maggots in the Air, They Keep Training Their Senses of Taste, Suddenly They Swallow a Sewer and Spit It Out And Swallow It's a Bunch of Nocturnal Walkers Around Us
There are many, many such poems in this journal.
There is nothing to say, the heart is tired.
Observing the complexities and subtleties and being extremely sensitive to them is where the writer can settle down and where he is tired.
Alas, how nice it would be to be an idiot!
