Jiang Jianhua

-bloom flowers falling in the dust.

Jiang Jianhua

A person, walking in the moonless night sky. You've been walking for so long, and you've walked through the storm before you got away from the noise. How can I tell you where my love stays in the sky? Neither the wind nor the clouds know.

-inscription

one

Early in the morning, there was snow, and it was quiet. Yesterday's stars fell in another century. In the old dream, only the wheat fields and moonlight in my hometown are vivid, and the infinite dream is silvery.

It snowed heavily that year, and the crops were bumper in that season. Snow poured on the ground one after another. I stood at the window, listening to the endless seasons. Sweet potatoes are baked on the warm stove. When the flame rings, the room is full of smoke and thick fragrance.

There is a desolate snowfield in my world, and the quiet and clear wind blows through one wasteland after another and another mountain.

Come on, let's go out for a walk. On a dreary night, the leaves lost their old rustle and waved and greeted each other. The weather forecast was earlier than ours, and we felt the heaviness of smog in the sky and the coming showers and storms in advance.

Feel the wind. You hear it in the middle of the night, like a sudden rainstorm, like a heavenly soldier in Zhang Yuhuang, sweeping scary thorns, and everything is messy and unremarkable.

two

Think of the birch forest in that autumn, the afterglow of the sunset is lazily scattered all over the forest, and the golden tall trees are fixed in every quiet autumn and every lonely night like oil paintings.

Yuan Ye is getting richer and brighter, and the cuckoo's cry tears the night sky, so the light can't enter the mottled birch forest when the birds feed.

After wandering, I am busy day after day. Every dark night, I have a cigarette late, like a witch cursing some bastard on the night of thorns. Who heard the helpless and silent cry in the silent night, perhaps only in the direction of home? I can't walk out of that mountain village through the dark night of Qian Shan.

Then the Lantern Festival will soon be in the dark, with all the things and disturbed dust and vows. I want to ask the distant sunset to give me the wisdom and secret words of the distant stars, so that I can complete my pure long-cherished wish before sunset.

Nightmares haunt the lonely sky day and night. Forgetting someone, forgetting a month, is like forgetting yourself in a dream. You suppress your anger, you are frightened, you can't run out of the dream, you are ecstatic, you laugh in the dream, you laugh as you run, and a strange dream comes out at dawn, with traces of a person and mottled blood stains on the wilderness.

However, it is precisely that beam of light, that gust of wind, that makes you regain the shadow of wind and fire in yesterday's dream. Is the dream awake or awake? You are you and me, a land as prickly as moonlight, a world of mortals like clouds, gorgeous and magical fireworks, a surprisingly calm sky and ignorant children looking at clouds in the sky.

three

That mysterious night in autumn, in the faint sadness and density of the coming rain, you and I will change. Will the time in the dream grow wings of regeneration and fly freely on a wasteland, rivers and mountains?

I want to go back there, back to that rich autumn, but that autumn will never come back. In our time, the secrets of our love and hate are gathered there. The wind blows through winter and summer, and the apples in one place and another turn white, and the old days can no longer stand the wind and dust.

Seeing that the sunset is about to set, the sparse tree shadows in the mountain village are reflected red, and an inexplicable melancholy is still warm, floating in the upcoming afterglow.

In those years, only a broken harmonica gently awakened the village at dawn, awakened the villagers in the fields, and awakened the ignorant eyes of the cowherd. The gentle harmonica blew away the mountain village, the sun and the moon, and the unfamiliar local accent of the children. The lemon moonlit night in that hometown is still so gentle and affectionate, except for the laughter and play of teenagers. The jujube flowers that suddenly fell in front of the door awakened someone's lonely old dream and woke up with tears. Flowers fall, snow falls, and messy and helpless dreams also fall. In this morning without wind, rain, sunshine and ignorance, I can't hear piccolo in the morning glow, nor can I see the children herding cattle.

There is no west wind, no thin horses, no dead vines, and a few homing birds, which vividly illustrate this small village that is about to enter the night. The peddler who went out one day went home with a big smile on his face. The villagers' songs and jokes rang on the country road, and the moon was about to rise. Cowherd guards the entrance of the village, waiting for his parents who have been busy for a day in Beiwa, crossing the tunnel of time, through layers of foggy things, through the countryside, through the city, through the mountains and every river in his hometown. Can you find laughter in the sunset? There are many houses in the city, and the streets in the city are endless. Who can remember the sparkling river? I can't find it in the dream of a long river sunset.

On the moonlit night, the sound of falling jujube flowers is always calling, calling for fright night when someone is depressed and dreamless.

four

Year after year, different flowers, romantic love on the bitter yellow land, no blooming and curious eyes.

How many times, I have exhausted my face, turned bitterness into the color of yellow land, splashed the pride of thousands of rivers, splashed the choice of the sky, and spent all my brains and pen and ink. I can never imagine how the swaying clouds in my hometown and the green campus wind soaked those narrow and round months.

What season is that? Peach blossoms, apricot blossoms and butterfly bees flooded the hillside. Your warmth has soaked me, wet the blurred season, wet the gray sheep and flowers on the yellow land, and the drifting white clouds are unhurried, helping the bleating sheep count the time to go home.

Sheep, flowers and clouds, I have gone through the green season, the bitter wilderness and the gloomy color.

Where is the wind blowing tonight? Where are we going to wander? Clouds, flowers, lambs and I don't say a word.

Sheep and clouds, one in the upper reaches of the earth and the other in the upper reaches of the sky. In the dark, a person walks in the wilderness.

Only the cold love lines tell one after another. I don't know whether it is a dry season or a rich season. The nation of yellow land, black land, red land and clouds is still a nation singing and dancing.

Who is silently looking at the drifting clouds in the sky, the drifting wind in the sky, the dark blue, the gray yellow, the shocking soul and the dusty flowers? When talking in black and white, the poet just sits and doesn't talk. What he looks at is the cracked purple flowers or the white speechless clouds that once swayed in the lush period.

Time has brushed the cities and villages, brushed the desolate and wild colors of Shan Ye, whether the stars in the night sky can be heard or not, and the wind is vaguely telling.

Are the flowers on the wasteland still charming and fragrant? Is the yellow sun still buzzing? Are your dreams and mine still blooming freely?

five

The wind took away the moon at that time, the color of that season, and the sadness and sigh of whoever was fascinated. The dream of lilacs and purples only blooms in that secret garden, which seems familiar and can't be found anymore.

In such a time, is it that a few drops of fresh rain and water fall into the long love line of the yellow land, surging dreams and rich expectations, and will grow into a towering poplar? When and when will it be completed? Poplar, the bride of the wasteland, will have a warm dream.

Acacia for a period of time, the wind is still running without color. Who can't hear the stars and moonlight without words and tears?

Flowers are also brilliant, and dreams are also brilliant. Except for the long night when the moon is full, the voice from the ear is talking, and the leaves rise with the wind, and the youthful face of the years can't be found.

Looking for lost youth bit by bit, no matter what you ask, it is the same ending. Falling dust can fly again, and your lost words can't be picked up again.

Simply let go of the loneliness in the dusk, run with the wind, drift with the clouds, and look gloomy, perhaps at some point in the drizzly dusk, looking for the green color.

Love and loneliness are just one word. The setting sun shines on the warm hillside, and the sheep are chewing the green grass. Who is chewing the green spring scenery? The mist rising slowly from the earth covers the hillside and fallen flowers, covering the autumn.

Flowers falling from the dust give off a faint fragrance.

six

Tonight, let's take a look again. Can a sharp crescent moon and a sickle with cold light harvest all the weeds in the thorny land?

If you grind it again, the sickle will be brighter, sharper and faster, just like the secret weapon of a martial arts expert, making things invisible and silent, making all thorns and witches whisper disappear, just like a disappearing opponent.

A crescent moon lit up the silent night, and a sickle harvested a strange thorn field.

Perhaps a calm and disoriented wait is a thunder, which destroyed all the ruined wasteland and old dreams, praised the light and reshaped the gloomy sky.

Sickle works miracles, and thorns are never reborn. Lightning worked miracles, awakened and lit up the earth and the sky. In the way of lightning destroying and admiring the light, it tells the story of every calm dawn, no longer rampaging, only flowing water and silent listening of time. The dead are like this, and there is no need to recite poems.

Not confrontation; Face the reality!

20 18.4.2 morning work

6. 17 was changed from 5: 30 to 6: 56.

Feng wrote it down.

Jiang Jianhua was born in June 1972 in Zhaoge Village, Shahezhan Town, Dongping County, Shandong Province. Graduated from Chinese Department of Tai 'an Teachers College, and started writing at 1992. Freelance creator, 20 18, a student of Gao Yanban, a young writer of Zhejiang Writers Association, whose pen name is Ruye and Shengfeng. His works have been published in Selected Prose, Prose Poetry World, Shandong Literature, Poet God, Prose Poetry, People's Daily, China Youth Daily, Tai 'an Daily, Taishan Literature and Art, etc. He has won the Excellent Essay Award from the Chinese Academy of Art, the Poetry Award from Guangxi Federation of Literary and Art Circles, the Top Ten Poems from Tai 'an Normal University, the Top Ten Works from Taishan Radio, the Excellent Works from Dunhuang Poetry Collection of Gansu Federation of Literary and Art Circles and the Excellent Essay Award from Changjiang Literature and Art Publishing House. The essay "Butterfly Night" was selected as "Lights on the Ground" by China Writers Network of Chinese Writers Association in 20 18. The essay "Blossoming" was selected as the outstanding work in the 11th issue of "Flower City Top List". Now lives in Tai 'an.