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I really like Pierre's way of expressing it slowly. The film itself feels like a poem recited slowly.
The poet lives passionately and sincerely, and his creation is like looking at the life of the earth on a distant planet. Poetry is like smoke lingering around, or whispering softly. We are in it, half-truth and half-truth.
The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore but to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out. It is an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery.
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How much time in our life can we spend beautifully and peacefully with our loved ones?
In spring, wake up in a sunny country house, run with butterflies in the fields, dance a waltz among wildflowers and grass; in summer, you are writing under an old tree, the wind blows gently, and you hear the tip of your pen Passing by, accompanied by the chirping of insects, I recite a song, yo yo, deer chirping; Autumn, gently hold your hand, go for a walk in the woods, pick up two dead branches that were broken by the wind, and partridges sing in the distance; In winter, watch the snow by the warm fireplace and sing a winter hymn.
Attached: Bright star
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art---
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with the eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task,
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen masque,
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors---
No, yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever, or eles swoon to death.
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