LIFE

Who can use green bamboo as a bow and arrow, shoot into the sky, and never fall? My imagination is like a long arrow that shoots towards the clouds and sky, and it never returns. The long arrow points, in the vast void that is blue and bright.

If a wise person makes good use of his wisdom, he will be able to read a small text from the sky, in which there are sighs and silences, colors and fragrances, love and resentment. No author name. No year or month. No story. None...but the content is very soft. The void is silent, and there is music in the reader's soul. The void is bright and blue, but the reader's soul is bright and clean.

There is a slope on the stone road in front of the gate, on the slope there are green trees, long stems and weak branches, and green leaves are stacked, such as emeralds, such as feathers, such as flags. There are often mountain spirits, showing their waists and white teeth, and coming and going. Those who meet are dumbfounded. Love makes one mute—a language sings about death. "Love and death are neighbors".

Of course, abstract love can also make people supernatural. Patriotism also needs life, and only those who are full of vitality can patriotism. People who are like eunuchs have nothing to love, they are enthusiastic about the country, they are so-so, they have no feelings for people, and they are extremely frightened of ideals. He also married and had children, studied and taught, and held meetings as an official, but he was always a eunuch mentally. Talking to eunuchs about this, of course, has no way of understanding.

Night dreams are very strange. I saw a pale green lily, with a weak neck and soft flowers, with slight spots and blue stains on the body, leaning against the door and shaking slightly. There seems to be a very familiar voice greeting from an unknown place:

"Look, there should be a star in the flower. Look carefully."

So reach out and touch it. The flower trembled slightly, as if timid. Also smile again, if there is something to rely on. Because of gently shaking the flower stalk, stalk, and petals. A few leaves have fallen off near the flowers.

Like a sigh, low and distinct.

The thunderstorm has just passed. When I woke up, I smelled a dog barking in the distance, barking like a leopard. Half-dazed, I lay in bed and meditated, feeling melancholy. Because the lily swayed by the door, trembled or smiled when touched, in fact impossible!

When he got up, he would write down what happened, and use the semi-relief technique, like a jade worker to process a piece of jade, cut it and cut it. When finished, it looks like a small decoration on a fireplace. Exquisite as porcelain, simple as bamboo.

Most people like to use educational status to measure a person's moral level. Especially the ethics of sex. In fact, things in this regard are hard to say. Some people we should laugh at are often respected by society, such as eunuchs. There are some people we should praise, but society considers sinful, such as honesty. The ideas expressed by the majority are, as a rule, the opposite of the truth. Most people are happy to be safe or self-sufficient in a falsehood. So I burned that manuscript. I am not afraid of society, I hate society, I hate hypocrites, and I don't want this perfect poem to be defiled by the eyes of hypocrites.

Lilies are very quiet. Especially quiet in the image.

In the valley, there should be lilies with white and light blue, weak necks and long pedicles, speechless, fragrant and light, and their torso delicate. The pollen is yellow, and the leaflets are green.

France once wrote a "Red Lily" story, about the place of love in life, all its forms, and its subtle changes. I want to write a "Green Lily" to express imagery in form.