Eternal day, there is a murmur in my heart, a metaphor, when I go out the door, the evening breeze is cool, the gathered women dance in the square as if fishing, I don't know the facts of the square, whose singing forms a melody in my mind, whose emotion In the scriptures form the eternity of a day of summer, the gods, because of their great food, drink and play, seem to have given their sorrows to the heroes, the tears cannot stop flowing because of the heart, what I have captured in the infinite river, seems so little, I Sloth, drooping like a heavy sinner, in shackles, my dance is but fearless whirling like a rosebud, the root is the invisible part of the tree, the leaves meet the sun, the gleaming words shine in the night sky, I want to hold on to my poverty , people who are sick record dreams, are people as short as winter? Or is that white light that radiates from far away, keeps disappearing along the way, but still leads to your erotic desires? Starting from childhood, marching towards death, falling down like the memory of my comrades-in-arms, I cut off the genealogy, but it must be inherited in another form at another address, like spring grass and autumn moon, monks put their ears into the wooden fish, and put the ashes of thinking Put into a wooden box, the silk thread cuts off troubles, and the experience of severing constant chaos is condensed in madness, such as spring meets winter, blood falls to the ground, mature sacrifices gather women to return to their hometowns in the cry of beasts and poultry, those souls communicate with each other With our ancestors, does the higher world have matching wisdom to ignore us without mercy? That eternal road, fortunate and unfortunate as one, our hands up to the sky, praying for the hour of the day, "being" smiling unintentionally, not mocking the good heart, nor the evil reality, in a solid world Inside, outside of me, nothing exists, and the decay of the body, the hunger of memory are always reminding, the so-called truth, on the level of Burma and the Dead Sea, on the shore of the ocean, all crabs and human beings are dying, all Corals all sip the essence of their lover in silence, I too am a bee killed by me in the circle of nothing, All quarrels and confrontations are washed hoarse in distant echoes, In this spiral, countless youths are like bones again. Gorgeous like cancer, the silent colony is full of reincarnation, who is the death knell tolling high, in the hills and between the coldness of the early morning and the people's hearts, washed repeatedly? Who, because of the insufficiency of heaven and earth, shuts down the five senses to find the lost voice, no matter how hard it is? Liu Gan's lord and pyramid friend, you shout to me like an immortal ghost, you are alive, you have blood flowing, the stars twinkle unseen, I can imitate any style like a geisha of old age, the people need the right bullshit Right
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