A thousand miles to send a prose with the theme of missing the moon.

homesickness

Xi Murong

The song of my hometown is a flute in Qingyuan.

It always rings with the moon at night.

The face of hometown is a kind of vague disappointment.

Like waves in the fog

After separation

Homesickness is a tree without rings.

Never grow old.

"I used to go to, willow, a; I think about it today, it's raining. " I came from the Book of Songs, elegant and chic, holding the bright moon and carrying the breeze to find the woman who picked the EU.

Where are you? Willow leaves flutter with the wind, just like your long hair, dancing all your life. Spend the whole afternoon quietly facing a pool of autumn water until dusk. Are the chrysanthemums in Nanshan blooming? A clear tear rolled down my cheek. The sunset is like blood. Looking at Pinghu from afar, a lonely boat leaves a thousand years of loneliness. Where is your hometown in autumn? Only such an autumn heart can shake the lonely flute. Listening to the flute near the water, a bright moon and a few oblique willows are infinitely poetic.

The bright moon in front of the bed is like frost, not frost. I looked up affectionately and bowed my head in silence. Who is my hometown? Whose hometown am I? Leng Xiang, just a daisy, seeped into the heart and spleen coldly, with broken bones and cold heart. The moon is bright in a foreign land, and the festival is near. Why relatives? Music and books are absolutely unique. People often recall that young people in Shan Ye climb mountains and wild chrysanthemums are in full bloom. Mao Yan is very low, the sound of the stream is far away, Cangshan is horizontal, extremely eye-catching, and Chutiankuo.

The heart is an old map. Open it slowly, full of smoke, the wind in the Tang Dynasty, the rain in the Song Dynasty, the bright moon in the Qin Dynasty and the mountains and rivers in the Ming and Qing Dynasties. Love is an abandoned net. Broken old dreams are in the net, and with the sound of water, they flow coldly through the city abandoned by years. Autumn is deep, the night is cool, and the yellow leaves dance with the wind, drawing a beautiful arc in the sky.

The long dike by the lake is very long. Walking in it is like walking far away, just visiting. Many new trees have been planted on the river bank, including precious conifer fir, broad-leaved camphor tree, ancient gymnosperm ginkgo, and many nameless trees, which add a bit of modern garden flavor to this idyllic river bank. The riverbank slowly extends into the lake. When you bend over, you can reach out and touch the filamentous algae in the water, which is cold and clear. Occasionally, you can see the shadow of swimming fish and the fish jumping out of the water. Autumn clouds are like smoke without smoke, like fog without fog, so they are so dreamy and psychedelic.

Pick a wild flower and watch its tears. How many countries are ruined, the world rises and falls, condensed into a tear, and rolled in the heart of flowers. Trees and grass also have hearts, and gravel also has feelings. Only those who know understand themselves, while those who don't understand struggle and can't read the mind of a cloud. Think of the king who set off the bonfire, just to win a smile; I miss writing love letters all my life, but I can't send them out; If you miss a flower, you will be lonely all your life. Moment, eternity. Life is just a breath, and the moment is too long and too far. It's better to watch a flower blossom and a butterfly dance, which is lovesick. This is a lifetime.

Monk, cold light, night, sleepless. Life is just a lonely journey, and the last way is to go by yourself. Look at a dandelion, drifting quietly with the wind, drifting away, far away, light and scattered. You and I are passers-by, such as flowers, leaves, clouds, water, a grain of sand and a little dust, so we gather and disperse, and we don't know where our hometown is or where the way home is.

I just want to be a Zen master in this life, traveling around wild cranes, leaving no one behind, and being chic between heaven and earth.

two

Open one calendar after another. Looking for a thousand years of homesickness along the thin line in the hands of loving mothers. Everyone, except a wanderer, misses his mother's warm embrace with the lingering of life. The suture of time, tightly passing through us, makes me riddled with holes. Endless thoughts, written in the wind, written in the rain, written in the depths of the night. That deep homesickness, across Qian Shan, across thousands of waters, across the smoke of a thousand years, strikes every night, like a raging sea ashore.

Four rhymes of homesickness

Yu Guangzhong

Give me a spoonful of Yangtze River water, Yangtze River water,

The Yangtze River is like wine,

The taste of drunkenness,

It is homesickness,

Give me a spoonful of Yangtze River water.

Give me a Zhang Haitang red, begonia red,

Blood-like begonia red,

The burning pain of boiling blood,

This is the pain of homesickness,

Give me a Zhang Haitang red, begonia red.

Give me a piece of snow, snow,

As white as a letter,

Waiting for a letter from home,

It's homesickness waiting,

Give me a piece of snow, snow.

Give me a sweet wintersweet, sweet wintersweet,

Mother-like wintersweet fragrance,

Mother's fragrance,

Is the fragrance of the countryside,

Give me a sweet wintersweet.

Which cloud can float from my hometown? Is that wind blowing from my hometown? Which wild goose can fly out of the house? Far away, news came from my hometown. Sitting alone by the window, looking for words about my hometown. Is the laurel tree in my hometown still blooming? Distant and rich Gui Xiang, fragrant with my words, lingers in the dreams of wanderers. Leave home more or less, and the boss will come back. How many local accents whisper, like a dream. Childhood friends have become strange uncles, and childhood lovers have married far away. Only the children around me looked at me with timid eyes, vaguely revealing the appearance of their parents. It turns out that life is a reincarnation.

Climbing up the old mountain and approaching the heartbeat, I feel a little timid. People can't step into the same river twice. Old feelings and old loves are like running water, far away, far away, leaving only memories, strong or weak, which are beautiful in the depths of time and space. Dare not ask, dare not look, dare not think, let this memory brew mellow old wine and get drunk with the oncoming west wind.

The mountain road is far oblique, outside the castle peak, in the castle peak. The boat lay lazily across, out of the green water, in the green water. How many people can swim safely at the Red Dust Ferry, how many people fall down and how many people cry in unfinished love? The tide came in and washed away the deep and shallow footprints. Perhaps, taking a step forward will broaden your horizons. Maybe, if you hold on a little longer, you will raise my lonely sail in the windless. The moon, now round on the sea, a wild goose flew by, leaving no trace in the sky, only a moan. Open the darkness of night and look for the dawn. Open the jar of memory, look for the rain and snow of the old year, I want to make tea, this day will be a cool autumn! Soak in the bright moon, soak in the river wind, soak in the lakes and mountains, and accompany you to get drunk for 3 thousand games!

When it is spring flowers and autumn moon, only acacia has never been idle. It's better to find a belt, string these lovesickness together, and save them for wine tasting when warming up in winter. Writing poems on red leaves is a romantic thing. Pick a red leaf, write down your name carefully, exile between mountains and rivers, let love flow with the water and send it to you in the distance. Yu Di blew frequently, turned around, and floated out of the lonely courtyard. The girl next door is like jade, and she secretly agrees. With who? A song of acacia, sending the bright moon, autumn wind blowing, scattered like yellow flowers all over the ground. In my hometown dream, where are the Iraqis? Time can easily throw people away, grow old in the autumn wind and change their appearance.

three

homesickness

Yu Guangzhong

In childhood

Homesickness is a small stamp.

I'm at this end

Mom is over there.

When I grow up

Homesickness is a narrow ticket.

I'm at this end

The bride is over there.

We'll talk about it later.

Homesickness is a low grave.

I am outside

Mom's inside.

But now

Homesickness is a shallow strait.

I'm at this end

The mainland is over there

The smoke rising from the hut, my mother's call and my father's warm hand are still in my dream. Hometown is a complex, a deep memory that can never be erased, and a password flowing in the blood that no one can unlock.

Childhood in the mud, summer in the pond, should we forget? It is only on this bone that the brand is engraved. When swallows come and geese return, they will be injured and float. Have you been to him? Does he know that the dew will be frost tonight? How bright the moonlight is at home! s？ The more people grow up, the more lonely they are; The older people get, the farther away they are from home. Sisters are separated, friends are separated, parents are old, and the days of going home are getting thinner and thinner. How many times can I visit my parents in my life? How many people go home once a year? How many people haven't been home for years? But how much love there is in that inch-long grass, have you got three rays of spring?

As the sun sets, the faint afterglow is sprinkled on the lake. The sky is overcast, and the pagoda on the other side can be seen vaguely. In the lake, it is a rainy night in Xiaoxiang. It's sad that the rain hits the banana. How many beautiful stories the old man told. I miss the days when I used to herd cattle and listen to old people telling stories slowly, but when I grew up, I found it was gone. People and stories have faded from memory and there is no trace to be found. At sunset, where is the township pass? A river of smoke, a cold wind, and a few western Western jackdaw. "People say that the sunset is the end of the world, and you can't see your home at the end of the world. I hate the separation between Bishan and Bishan, and Bishan is still covered by twilight clouds. " Looking up, the river is three thousand miles long and has no end. The sharp mountain by the sea, like a sword, came from a distance and suffered deep internal injuries.

Autumn rain, like tears. Little by little, I walked forward on the autumn leaves and quietly rolled into a pool of autumn water in front of the door. The mountains extend along Ye Ping, which is rainy and foggy. The river is in the wild, and autumn sounds. According to the weather forecast, the weather in my hometown is sunny. I miss the bright moon in my hometown, the mountains and rivers under the moon, the quietness of the deep courtyard, the emptiness of the small courtyard, the sleeping of relatives and friends, and the chirping of crickets.

Chrysanthemum yellow, autumn mountain clean, autumn water fine, I would like to ask pedestrians: this Mid-Autumn Festival, will you come back? Smoke waves on the river, cold smoke on the waves, another sound, it is autumn on earth.

four

Under the full moon

Yu Guangzhong

Moonlight on the ground,

Nobody cleaned it,

Then fold a Zhang Kuo lotus leaf,

Go back wrapped in moonlight,

Looking back, I fell into the Tang poetry.

Flat,

Like crushed acacia ...

Moonlight has the fragrance of lotus leaves.

The sand is like snow and the moon is like frost. Coody Leng is silent and wet with osmanthus. Looking east at the old garden, Hengyang geese go, Nanyue clouds come, unintentionally. I miss a pot of wine, with this faint sadness and faint acacia,

Make a pot of poetry and get drunk. The boat on the river rocked and the curtain moved upstairs. Where are you? Only in this cold wind, in the rhyme of Mid-Autumn Festival, I read Tang poetry casually.

Old vines, old trees, bright moon. Small bridge, flowing water and breeze. Missing is a thin horse, walking in the wilderness of time and space, hiding wildness and losing elegance, so lonely, I can see you in the world.

Once I tasted the vast sea, I felt that the water in other places was pale; Once you have experienced the clouds in Wushan, you feel that the clouds elsewhere are eclipsed. The most unforgettable thing is the past that I don't want to think of. When it comes to it, it hurts and flowers. Life is always hard, and you forget it in the Jianghu. The spirit of laughing at heaven with a horizontal knife can only be in dreams. Tonight, drinking the bright moon alone, drunk in the flowers, alone and chic. Till, raising my cup, I asked the bright moon, look at three people. In fact, the only confidant in life is the bright moon.

I sang. The moon encourages me and I dance. My shadow rolled behind me until my mind was empty, and I saw that you were you and I was me, heartless and affectionate, and emptiness was colorful. Sex, dispersion, ability, normal life, why care? There is a bright moon in the sea of hearts. Let it light up this autumn. Put on clothes and leave the hospital. The world is empty, the light is comfortable, the fragrance is floating, and the bamboo shadow is oblique. Why separate hometown from hometown?

Fireflies fly over trees, fields, yards and curtains with obviously extinguished lanterns. The evening clouds have passed, the days are getting colder, the months are getting brighter, and the years are similar. Next year may be better. On the banks of the Qujiang River yesterday and in front of the Shuige today, the bright moon is still there.

The moon reflects thousands of rivers, and thousands of rivers are bright. Autumn wind, the water is getting thinner, the mountains are getting colder, and a lake is shining with silver. Don't worry, don't be afraid, don't like and don't be sad. My heart is like a bright moon, and the horizon at this time is * * *.