Spring rain a bag of

Author: Liu Anjin
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-10-01
Features: Today is what kind of day On the stone where lotuses bloom On the stone where laughter echoes On the stone filled with warmth On the stone where countless little monks are born On the cliffs of Geumwusang Mountain to the south of Gyeongju On the Buddha statues standing everywhere embracing the mountains, letting out tears to my heart's content In this infinite present, today is what kind of day Who am I, what am I Listening to Shostakovich's "Clear Stream" If I long for mountains, I and the world will become towering peaks standing in the sky If I long for water, the world and I will become clear rivers, merging into the vast blue sky Age To lure you to eat the forbidden fruit, countless snakes entangled in the cave twist and turn I want to raise a cunning flower snake in my body to tell you, this is my age Inferiority complex A small insect, exhausted from running around all day, falls into a withered petal The petal that will wither tomorrow, full of compassion, falls early to cover itself with a blanket This is the answer to dusk The days when women are tormented by rumors Whether hypocritical or true, time has washed it away, and the woman's heart has returned to its original state Originally, humans are living, living people, the latest work of God's hands Today is also busy, like soybeans wrapped in a skin, like falling in love blindly People are not perfect, like gold that is not pure Today is also busy, busy to deliberately create something wrong, helplessly busy, running a tragic tragedy, a dramatic tragedy What if the words not spoken are spoken, leaving an empty feeling What if one's uniqueness becomes ordinary What if something noble and eternal becomes a fleeting sweetness What if it is contaminated into the vulgar tribe of the streets and alleys, not daring to say the warm words "I love you," enduring it, condensing it into a seed, putting it into that stone heart, turning it into warm words, matters of autumn, autumn leaves, adhering to purity, making solemn vows, yet ending up with countless wounds, suffering countless traumas Is this the autumn, can this be the autumn, can this be the autumn? The dinner of the crow The lettuce brushed past, as if cut by a knife, dripping blood, full of vitality The summer of killing intent, the rich and pungent youth, living as Cézanne-like figures, with lean, true sorrow, drinking bitter cold coffee, regretting the rich hypocrisy of existence, living like a flood of tears, holding onto the end of the original color of the world, making a true, original self, hanging in the autumn sky, waiting to be the dinner of a crow in the frosty sky Watching swans The nobles in the sky, for a moment