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���۾�֪����ʧ�ߣ� ��ʧ�߲ⶨ�㹹���ʫƪ�� ��ü�Dz��������ij�� ����ô����ʹ�ཫ�����ˣ� ��������ɽ�ҧ�ž��ģ� ��������ʼ�ս�ҧ�ŵ��ˡ� Self-portrait From your eyes, I know that you suffer from insomnia. From your insomnia I surmise that you're composing your poems. Your well-pruned eyebrows suggest unyielding wings����What sort of pain has scorched them? But the iron jaws still bite hard with the resolve, And the resolve itself bites hard the enemy.
��ɬ��ϣ�� ��̦ԭ�ϵ�С��¹Ⱥ�� �����������Ӷݣ� Զ�ˣ���Զ�ˣ���춲�����Ӱ�� ֻ��һƬ��ʹ�����籩�� �������ҵ��ģ� ĪҪ�����ң����Ѿ����ϣ� ��ų�������ȫ���Ĺ����Ͳ��ҡ� Bashful Hope Bashful hope, Like a herd of timid deer, Is frightened for the caressing and flees Far away, farther away, till it vanishes. There is left only some pain, Like a tyrant, Trampling on my heart. Don't torture me, I have already confessed: Cowardice brings all the faults and misfortune.
����С��Ӧ�÷����� ƫƫȴ������������ ����Ϊ��ô�����ĵȴ��� ��ɽ���ޣ�Ҳ���Ѿ��ſ����� �����ҵļ�����ɫ������ �������������˵���㣬 �������б��ܵ�����Ӵ�� �Ƿ�����Ĭ��δ�������죿 �����ۼ������質�� ȴ��ƫƫ�������죬 ���ӵĺ��Ӿ����⾪�ţ� ���裬�Dz������˻����ǣ� ���紺��Ҳѧ������ƭ�� ��ô��ؾͻ�˵���ⲻ����Ĵ��죻 ��ͷ�����⣬ �ػ��߽������ջ��Ԥ�ԡ� 1979��5��21�� ���磬����������ҹɫ�����С� [�]]���ٹ�ҥ������ɽ����ɽ���ޣ����Ը߷ɣ����κΣ��� Suppose Suppose birds should fly in now, But they are not yet seen. Why is the wood so patiently keen? In the North Mountain there is a net. Maybe it is stretched, isn't it yet?��. Suppose it is already gloomy in my hometown, And there comes rain drops shooting at people. My country folk that are running in the rain Are still thinking about the sunny days in the future? Suppose the rooster is itching to crow, But it keeps silent. The timid children would go panic. Mom, has the weasel come? Suppose Spring has learn to cheat, Then the earth would say: this is not spring. The hoe would go rusty, The exploiter would carry away his prophesy of harvest. At dawn of May 21, 1979 When Kunming was still covered by the night curtain. Note: ancient ballad:There is a bird in South Mountainand inthe North Mountain a net is stretched open. The bird flies high and the net remains idle.
��Ԩ���������ɣ�����������һ�š�ÿ���ʣ�����Ū�Լ��⡣ ������ͳ������Ԩ������ Ȼ�����Ҳ���Ⱦƣ� ��һ�������ӵ���Ҳ���С� ����ͩľ�� ���й��٣� ������β�� ��������һ�����˵IJ��ӣ� ��������һ�������ŵ����͡� ���ᣬ���ᣬ���ᣬ ���У����У����С� �������Զ�һ������ɣ� ���һ����˲�ֹһ����dz �Ҳ�����Ԩ������ ��������ǰ������������ �Ҳ�����Ԩ������ Ҳ���˸��ٵ�ʱ�� Stringless Harp Tao Yuanming didn't know music,but he kept a stringless harp.When he was a bit high with liquor,he played the harp to express his feelings. ����Xiao Tong: On Tao Yuanming However, I never drink liquor. And I do not even have a thing that can be called a harp. I have neither tung wood, Nor rattan bow, Neither horse tail, Nor ivory-like and weathered plectrum Nor amber-like rosin. No, no, no, Never, never, never. Though I know a little about music, I have stored up not a little of worry. I am no Tao Yuanming. And I didn't plant five willows in front of the gate. I am no Tao Yuanming, So I miss the chance of playing the harp.
������㷺�Ƶġ�ʫ������ �翪�����������ع������� �����������Ѿ��ֵIJ��ݣ� ��л�������ӣ������ϸ��¼������ ��Խ��ף����������࣬ ��ɢԭʼ�־壬�ٸ����� �ò������Ҿ���������� ��ѧ���������ְ����鴡� 춽��������˽���֮���� ��ʹ������ͷ«��������� �ޱߵ������������֮������ ��˭��������ע�����꣬ע�Ͱ��飿 Reading the Book of Songs Leafing the yellowish Book of Songs I seem to be letting out the bird from the cage, my ears assailed with bird's chirping. Is it the bird that has long been extinguished? Thank you, Master Confucius, for your having this recorded at the time. This has surpassed the sorcerer's imprecation, and the bell of the temple, Dispersing the original fear and breaking away from the official regulations. Much ashamed, I would be so idiotic, Having learned drawing magic figures and helped carrying the casket. Now I am on the bank of the Yangtze and the Hui River. With my white head bent, I am grieving together with the white reed catkins. The boundless bleakness is the groan of the margin country. Who is here to annotate my loyalty, and my love?
��Ĭ �۳�Ĭ ���Ĭ ���硢���ơ���� �����ж����Խ���һö��Ĭ ɽ��Ĭ ˮ��Ĭ �����Ҳ�Ծ��ε�ʳָ��ס˫�� ��Ĭ ������ѵ� ��������� ��Ĭ ��Ĭ�ǽ� Clinging to the Evening Pavilion Silence With the eye, With the mouth. Lightning, flowing clouds, and feather wings In their swift transit, they hold something called silence. Silence with the mountains, Silence with the water. Fumes and fire hold their lips with spastic forefingers To keep silent. Towards the cracking of the sky And that of the earth that deafen the ears Silence is maintained. Silence is Gold.