On the go

Always on the way, never arriving

The inscription embedded in the verb stands in a row of sycamores

Bringing sleepless longing to the sleeping birds

Or, the guilt of accomplishing all history

A glass shattered on the iron nail

A row of mirrors dedicates countless bumps

Through the dusk, the countryside with a walking stick is seen from afar

Flowers and shadows pass by

We bowed and gave way

That day, we met at the pier where the monolith died

Blushing eyes

Witnessing the paper boat of childhood swallowed by the whirlpool of middle age

The boatman gnawing on the melon did not dare to spit out the melon seeds

but smashes the rind into the setting sun

In this way, the worries of the River canal

Infected with the frankness of the ancient Road

We chased the twilight with our bodies

But we left behind the lonely geese in the southern mountains