The 2nd issue of the New Poems is recommended for reading| Zhang Zuoji: stone, scissors, cloth

Stones, scissors, cloth

Author: Zhang Zuoji

woods

The wind finally stopped.

Like a ghost, he stepped out of the tree hole.

Prayer did not stop the woods from falling into ruin,

As far as the eye can see, it is the rest of his life.

The path that was blown away, like a grasshopper,

Jumping again at his feet,

But he didn't know whether to move forward or backward.

in order to get to the place where you were going earlier.

He sniffed the broken air.

His breath was like a branch, mutilated.

The tree cave was once built inside the tree

The small temple secretly sheltered him

But now open your mouth wide,

It was like devouring him behind him.

Where can he go? Since everything is familiar,

It all became so strange.

The doubt of the eyes is not to hear the butterflies turn into birds,

Instead, the plant secretly exchanged identities.

When he looked up again,

Discover the Red Pine Forest on the left,

It has been replaced by a dark green banyan tree.

I have memories of the starry sky...

I have the memories of the starry sky,

- Everything reflected on it;

Dreams are written in nothingness,

Find the Body of Existence there.

Traces of thought,

Bodhi thoughts, and Chitose worries,

Like the wisps of smoke after the burning of wheat straw, the vultures rise by themselves...

Oh, the memories of the starry sky,

All my past lives

A place to live.

When I look up,

That distant starry sky,

As if secretly changing the position and shape of the memory,

Those that used to happen to me,

Things that are born again in nirvana,

Scattered wandering,

Blurry as a nebula,

Mysterious and astrological.

A self-portrait smeared with suspicion,

Like a recorder,

Hanging above my head.

But don't know how tomorrow will come.

One night the spring rains opened the magnolia

Rain fell on the magnolia. latter

The expression seems to be sleepwalking or in

Migration in the desert -

Rain is prescribed in the form. Everything is the content.

Maybe I'm sleepwalking.

It was me, migrating in the endless desert;

Magnolia is just another rain,

Fell on my head;

Maybe it's me, in the way of feeling the rain,

Feel the opening of magnolia flowers;

The thirst in its white pleated skirt,

The same as the thirst of the rain;

Perhaps, its shyness is just to make room for a roof,

Shelter me from the rain, and its great fragrance,

It is to reserve a memory of the sound of rain,

For me to listen when I am lonely.

- The rain is the rain of last night,

But the magnolia flowers bloom in the morning,

Its petals are bright and dry, while the flowers are wet and heavy.

The house is surrounded by purple and black birdsong,

This makes the melancholy seem unquenchable.

Three basements, each containing different souls;

In this regard, it has been concluded that:

The pond in front of the door stands low,

It was for more stones to flow into its body.

However, the wound is copied to the stone,

The pain was not removed.

I had seen the owner of this house, and the pain was like a vine

Hanging on the wall, it was followed by waves and bitterness

sunset. Cross-border is sometimes an offense,

But more often than not, it's containment and balance.

Relative to the earth, the house and the language are all

What happened later. Games, politics, and war are too.

So when I saw the house owner in the fall

Holding a large pair of scissors,

Cut the vines on the wall one by one,

I knew it was time to clear: the stones returned

Embraced by the earth, death returns to the hearts of survivors.

Only the earth is innocent.

When winter comes as scheduled,

We're going to see the following —"

A house wrapped in snow, independent wilderness,

Trance like a stone, silent repentance to the sky——

Birdsong like bullet holes disappear,

The host went out and did not return.

concentrate:

This article was published in the New Poetry Classic column of The Second Issue of Yanhe Magazine in 2022

This article is an excerpt

The pictures in this article are from the Internet