Excerpts from American literature

Zhu Chengyu

The first quarter moon is only with you for the first half of the night, and the rest of the time is left for you to remember.

The first quarter moon is a razor, scraping off the sadness of the whole first half of the night.

The winding moon, like an hour hand inserted on the surface of a blue clock, quietly watches people's time.

"How little time people have! The first quarter moon sends out her feelings, except for sleep and running. Where are the happy times? "

"Aren't you? Aren't all other nights filled with sadness except the full moon night? "

"No, I have my happiness. There is hope in the first season and nostalgia in the second season. I am very happy. Sadness is just a dress that people have imposed on me. "

No matter what she said, I still stubbornly believe that this bleak bend is a tear after seeing through the joys and sorrows of the world of mortals and a scar in the cold air of cold leaves. But this does not hinder her happiness, just like every beer lid has scars left when it is opened, but they are not sad about it.

The tail in summer is like a gecko. If you cut it off, it will come again.

More and more people, when they are getting younger and younger, lose a luster in their hearts. Ye Zhi once wrote: "Everything people hear and see is the clue of life. If we can carefully pull it out of the chaotic memory scroll, anyone can use it to weave the robe of faith they want. " . Now it seems that we are gradually losing this ability. What we hear and see are discarded by us and cannot arouse interest.

You are not interested in anything but the moon. The empty world seems to have only this last moon left. She is thin and bent now.

I saw my moon, just like Grandet saw gold. People say that what kind of heart, you can see what kind of moon. I said, what is the moon and what is the heart.

When I was moldy, a lot of grass grew on my heart. The first quarter moon, a sufficient sickle, helps me become pure.

There are different scenery on both sides of the corridor. On the left is a rose with thorns, smiling. On the right is a dim bamboo wound, sighing.

Happiness and sadness are two kinds of weather that life brings to me at the same time.

It's like different neighbors live next door. Greetings during the day are sweet words. What comes to visit at night is loneliness and emptiness.

In the temple, a young man said to a monk, now, I am bent on practicing Buddhism. The monk said that the Buddha is not broken and need not be repaired. Fix yourself.

It's like seeing a lack of moon. What is missing is not the moon, but your heart.

There are two great philosophers in a city, one is a theist and the other is an atheist. Both of them have been trying to convince the people in the city. The whole city is in chaos, and life can hardly go on. The people in the city decided, "Let them discuss the debate, and then no matter who wins, we will follow him. We will always follow the winner. " So on the night when the first quarter moon hung, the two philosophers began to discuss and debate. Both of them are very great logicians, but in the morning, the whole city fell into greater chaos, and they both persuaded each other, so atheists became atheists, theists became atheists, and the problem continued.

Arguments and excuses are meaningless. Debussy said: "Philosophers always coldly analyze, dissect and destroy secrets." Now that the moon is in the center of these debaters, will she be safe?

In any case, please don't call the moon "a planet with layered structure such as shell, mantle and core".

The moon has no label. Many people like to look up at her and talk to her. Good people have no labels, and many people like to get close to them, keep warm or enjoy the cool.

In the first quarter of the moon, she often cuts my newly healed wound. But at the same time, she advised me that life is to learn success from failure, honor from shame, strength from depression, and true self from rebellion; Even learn civilization through violence, emotion through war, smell flowers through blood, and open your heart through death. ...

When you hear the knock on the door again and stand, a smile rises quietly from your little strong heart. Yes, you should smile, make a smile like a flower born from that kind of pain, and make a smile like a vine climbing out of memory. Smile, give misfortune an alternative expression, for your pride.

You know, some people always leave, and some people always come. If your heart is already a devastated land, you need to settle down in another spring. If it is because spring has left you a mess, you only need a winter snow to freeze and cover up corruption.

The first quarter moon is a razor, shaving off those troubled hair. Give me back a wrinkled but clean face.

Note: This article was published in motto 20 1 1.5.

Rose skeleton

Zhu Chengyu

Time flies, carving many wishes on a person's door, opening the door, you and I are still alive, I am still me, you are still you, only the white horse in front of the door runs day and night, splashing flying dust on our once proud apple-like face.

It is not that we have slowed down, but that the world has gone too fast. A series of love promises that can't be chased, a pair of cards that can't be seen through our eyes, we sit around the stone mill of fate, playing chess like two old friends, silent, and let time flow quietly between our fingers and long hair.

Perhaps a young guest's visit woke us up suddenly under the sunshine, but the stubborn heart still dreams of clenching its fist, holding its youth in its palm, and still dreaming of leaving a strand of long hair for the love of this life.

But when we get old, we should use moonlight to light up the past road, as if everything was completed in an instant. Wrinkles crept up quietly, our hair turned white quietly, our teeth loosened quietly, and our hearts became quiet quietly. Passion was crushed and buried in the rut behind him. Fortunately, I can still recall how many beautiful apples fell behind me, brilliant. Before I could pick it up, it began to snow.

We are like two leaves, withered and yellow, but still stubbornly attached to Qiu Shu, waiting for the young wind to wake up the sleeping rose at the bottom of life, waiting for the green branches, dipping in the blood of the last sunshine and leaving a message of love.

Life comes like this, just like a flower show in the graceful door: when it blooms, it is thrilling and silent. A poem says that the flowers have withered, but the fragrance is still walking. However, when the rose becomes a skeleton, will the lover's warm heart be stiff?

The distant years flow behind us into a river, with thoughts flashing on it. Missing is a sweater made of two kinds of wool, happiness and sadness, which warms our souls who are afraid of cold.

At that time, I hijacked your kindness and put you in my heart, becoming the sky of my life. We once met on the petals of a teenager, like a secret date of two drops of dew. At that time, I don't know how many waterless winters I took from you.

At that time, the sky was like a huge bamboo basket, filled with clouds and wandering hearts.

I watched one spring leave, and another spring climbed on my chest. Even on a simple leaf, our surprised eyes will line up.

It was my youth when I ate the wind, drank the dew, smelled nature and smelled the soil.

Now the sea has lost its former blue, and the sky has faded its dreamy color because of the invasion of desire. Before the moon rises, have you ever thought about whose rose petals you want to be, whose lover and whose heart you want to be in the afterlife?

The sun is still overhead, doing everything, helping us pick up a bunch of lost keys and throw away some rotten apples. The snow outside the door whirled past, and two old people who were entangled in sleepy people watched by a fire in the door.

The firewood in the stove crackled, and we sat opposite each other like two ancient puppets, gradually forgetting the heavy snow outside the window and the noisy world of mortals in the distance. This is our life. We push open the heavy wooden door together every morning, close the green window together every night, listen to Liang Zhu played by various musical instruments together, save the butterfly that accidentally fell into the water together, keep a pot of water boiling together, and browse the yellow photo album of our youth together. ...

We have saved enough extravagant memories, as long as we tear up any one of them at will, it will last for a long time.

I want to keep a cat as our companion, but it sleeps much more than we do. I wanted to raise a gust of wind and train it to understand my whistle, but we fed a tear.

The moon is a rose in full bloom on a high place. On my deathbed, I will still praise the moon, roses and love with such poems. But the moon is so thin tonight that people can't bear to use her light to light the cigar of desire.

I have no property to distribute and no regrets to make up at the last minute. I just want to write another love letter, Rose Skull, a love letter from an old man before he died.

Whether it will be laughed at by young people.

We stay in the trees in autumn just to leave a message of love. Just like my bedside phone, it's almost dead, but it still refuses to rest, and it also sends out a "beep" for help from time to time.

In a trance, it seems like a lifetime ago, the tired heart gradually fades away, and the passion in life seems to have disappeared. When the rose becomes a skeleton, the fragrance of love is still walking. We hope that time will gradually turn us into two dying fish, breathing in the narrow rut and taking care of each other. We used our last strength to help each other, watching the knives of the years carve our names on the same tombstone bit by bit.

Note: This article was published in Wenyuan 20 10.5.

A cloud with wings.

Zhu Chengyu

A cloud covered with wings. When it laughs, the world is bright, birds and flowers are fragrant, and when it cries, the world begins to convey sadness. Clouds are above my eyebrows, building nests for my dreams. Clouds spread their wings in the sky, take the bitterness and pain of the world into their arms, and then turn into tears to wash away the filth of the world. Sometimes, it will turn into a storm, roll up the garbage of the world, and make the desire tremble at the top of tall buildings.

Clouds, as if writing paper were torn pieces, as if dreams were wrapped in layers. Clouds that will never run enjoy the garden on earth while walking.

But now, it doesn't move, stopping over the road, like a quiet oil painting. Because of this huge handkerchief, the world suddenly became clean. It can make tears, when you want to cry, it can make notes, when you want to sing.

We were all very busy that day and drove very fast. Just like money dancing in front, it is like being ignited by desire. At the intersection where the red light had to stop, I heard one child say to another, wait a minute, let that cloud cross the road first.

Son, are you afraid that we will hit the clouds blindly? Are you afraid of clouds crying? Or, simply want to make way for the cloud? During making way for the cloud, many changes have taken place in the world. Many cars passed by the two children. Some people stopped to look at them, looked at the sky and walked away disappointed. A meeting is being held further away, and the fate of many people is decided at the meeting. Clouds floated past the busiest part of the city. It wipes the rusty thoughts of the city and wipes a pair of eyes lost in the noise.

I remember a soldier's death was about clouds: in the trench, the soldier suddenly looked up and saw a cloud floating leisurely. He couldn't help looking up, and for a moment he regarded it as a love letter from his beloved, and for a moment he regarded it as a sheep floating from his hometown. He was completely attracted by the changeable beauty of the cloud and forgot that it was a battlefield. As a result, a shell exploded beside him. He died, not heroically, but beautifully. If the whole world could make way for a cloud like that soldier, there would be no war in this world.

To make way for a cloud is to make way for childhood and a kite embroidered with blessings and wishes; To make way for a cloud is to make way for a dream, to make way for a tadpole, and to use a string of jumping notes; To make way for a cloud is to make way for your own soul.

"When a girl sees her budding self in the eyes of others, she thinks there will be no bad news in this world." Climb out of the swamp at night with your dream clothes on your mouth. I opened the window in a hurry to see if today's clouds are quiet or noisy, happy or sad. Clouds never fold their wings for anyone. But today, I feel it fall. It has never been so deeply rooted in this world as it is today, and it will never wander again.

Note: This article was published in the eighth issue of Prose in 2009.

The last bus home

Zhu Chengyu

If there is nothing particularly urgent, I always choose to take the last bus home on weekends.

I'm so anxious about that feeling: sitting alone at the far right of the last row, slowly feeling the coming of the night! The night is like a thick black robe, which wraps us inside. The street lamp flashed by me, and I often had hallucinations in front of me. Forget that you are just a passer-by in this city, as if the prosperity and romance of this city have their own share. That's really a subtle feeling. Countless tiny happiness intertwined, rippling in the boundless night. The window is gradually away from our taillights, and gradually dim into barely opened eyes in the dark, with a smile, signaling us to catch up.

But it doesn't catch up and walks leisurely. I was also left behind by time and couldn't catch up. It is like that agile, flying cat, which often passes in front of me. I live clumsily, twisting my clumsy body and walking slowly in the world. Maybe, I can't buy a ticket to Happy Island, maybe, I can't catch the flight carrying all kinds of dreams ... What happened? There is the last bus waiting for me to go home. Wherever I go, I will camp there. Others draw targets, and then aim and shoot. I shoot first, and then draw the target there, so that I can shoot in the gun without missing a bullet. Call me self-deception, or the spirit of ah q, how many people in life have not grown up in the lies of fate? As long as this lie takes care of your soul and makes it painless and not crowded, why care that it is frivolous gossip?

The last bus is slow, like an ancient woman with little feet, walking carefully with lotus steps. This also coincides with my mood at the moment. I chose to take the last bus just to enjoy going home. I have been running for a week, and I will take a slow walk on these two weekends that belong to my soul.

My home is in a town 50 miles away. I think my mother must be busy in the kitchen in an apron. My father must be reading the newspaper, looking out of the window at the crossroads I pass from time to time. This time of every weekend is my happiest moment. A heart seems to be no longer in my chest. I flew back to my parents in advance and couldn't wait to steal a table cooked by my mother and drink a mouthful of wine from my father.

The last bus was slow, although it carried a group of people who were eager to return. At this time, people seem to have become fast-flying birds, rushing to their nests in the dark. The mother held the children in her arms and put them to sleep. The last bus is earlier than the children's bedtime. Couples hold hands and tell love stories in code words that others can't understand. Even if we spend more time together, lovers will always feel that time passes too fast; Fathers dragged their tired bodies, boarded the last bus and came home anxiously, with a few exquisite sweets in their pockets, and began to miss the situation of their children. Students in the graduating class of senior three slowly catch the last bus back to school, and even if they don't want to, they have to return to the ivory tower to complete their mission. ......

The last bus is a person alone and two people get together; It is for a memory, but also for a beginning; Is for faint, but also for legend; It represents calm and passion; For love, but also for eternal loneliness. ...

There is always your last bus. If you miss the day, you will stop at night. There is always my last bus, missing the prosperity and stopping at simplicity; There is always his last bus, miss the noise and stop quietly. Every moment of beauty is like water pushing a boat. You don't have to be persistent or importune. It is already around life.

Everyone has his own street lamp outside the window, and everyone has his own open doors and windows in front of him, which are the open arms of his family.

"shh!" The lively carriage suddenly quieted down, and I heard someone kindly remind me. Seeing the baby crying in its mother's arms, those happy high school students stopped chattering loudly. Couples also make eye contact. A father took out a candy and sent it to his chubby little hand. The air began to smell of sugar. The child slowly fell asleep again, and the mother nodded gratefully to everyone in the carriage.

I remembered the youth movie, subway to spring, a poetic name, which suddenly narrowed the distance between me and the screen. People, after years of doing one thing over and over again, will always get tired. At this time, how important it is to have a happy heart. Sometimes, with a little kindness, the subway to Siberia can go to spring.

Mom said that people had better not miss two things: the last bus home and someone who loves you deeply.

Note: This article was published in Liaoning Youth A Edition 20 1 1 No.7..

The water lights float, and the moon is shadowless.

First of all, water remembers sadness

The night has passed, crows don't sing, old trees are entangled, and leaves are withered. My palm, the remaining warmth, was gradually blown away in the cold wind, and my heart was cool and messy. I brushed away the thoughts of running water and crossed the melancholy of mountains and rivers. I met the red flower, which bloomed with a smile and stood proudly in the dark, reflecting whose face and locked eyebrows. Let the cool night pass by, let the messy heart wander, let anyone be confused and broken, laugh at yourself, look at the mirror in the lake, vaguely see your sleeves dancing, embark on a journey without me, and say softly, if there is fate in the next life, I will return your life. Then, I turned to leave, leaving me alone, watching your figure disappear into the night, reaching out to catch something, but disappearing into the night with the wind. My heart, like flowing water, has embarked on a life of no return. I don't know when I can return to my life with you.

On the branches of the moon, the mood is like a river. Who stood on the shore and folded a wicker to describe your dusty appearance? A stroke, endless hook points, a stroke, an unspeakable marriage can only bury its head, hoping that tears will take root and form our next life, and he can accompany you through those three years, even if it is only one person in this life. It is enough to be moved by the sadness in this life and repay our feelings for life in the afterlife.

Sitting alone on the shore, watching the lake flow around me like tears, that person, that feeling, stretched out this night, and the wind flooded me like a tide. I stirred it with my hand, and the circle rippled, like a floating picture. Layer by layer, scattered in the world of mortals. Who remembers who, who is thinking about who, suddenly woke up and was in a trance.

I got up and was silent. It took me a long time to sigh in my heart. The beauty is heartless, leaving only a heartbroken song.

Second, the lamp misses people

I lit a floating lamp and remembered your feelings all your life, a little bit. By candlelight, I swayed that night, but I still vaguely saw you bending over and wearing sleeves, covering the south wind, and the moss scattered on the ground brushing the dust in Qian Qian, but I still looked at the scholar in the curtain with a frightened look, for fear of disturbing him. So, goodbye.

I stood on the edge of the mountain forest, the cold wind was blowing, and I was tightly wrapped in a skirt. This, in my memory, seems to be such a familiar landscape. My heart seemed disturbed by something and began to tremble. Then I took a step and walked forward step by step. Suddenly, candlelight lit up in the bamboo building in the distance, swaying with the wind, reflecting a figure. At that moment, I saw a shadow entangled in dreams, and then, the whole person couldn't stop crying. I want to reach out and touch it, but I'm afraid of being disturbed. I just looked at you quietly. Just like that scene, and you never left, you are still by my side. Just, I smile bitterly, but I understand that everything is just fake, and you are gone.

I turned around and gradually walked to the lake in the distance, as if something was spreading in my body. My heart began to break a little before I smiled. It turns out, it turns out, now I'm just remembering the years when I had you, but I didn't give up the years when I had you. I squatted down and let the tears drop, but I was always silent. I know this may be the destruction I deserve in my life, so. I turned around and looked back at the hut on the mountain. There was hope and sadness in my eyes, but maybe nothing could replace it.

Every night, I have the same dream. The people in the dream are vaguely with me, laughing and laughing all the time. Under the floating lamp, your beauty has been affected by the wind and frost, and your hair has been withered into snowflakes by the years, scattered on my shoulders. I am outside the window, like a fool, waiting for the reincarnation of the next life to return your love in this life.

When I woke up from my dream, I sat alone by candlelight. Outside the window, Leng Yue, like a hook, stung someone's heart. Then, in a flash, I was in tears, just for you.

Third, the moon has no shadow.

On a cold night, the stars are sparse and there is no light and shadow. I passed by the river, and the moon in the blue water was incomplete, so I couldn't show what I was like. Only endless sadness, with the running water, floats in the direction of your passing away, just to find your happy face. Just, always understand that some things, some people, missed is missed.

I sat quietly on the shore, keeping silent, thinking of you under the floating water lamp, singing the same song with me and infiltrating into my heart. I want to freeze the time at that moment, let me touch the warmth of your palm again, let me talk, and wish to hold your hand and grow old with my son.

The moon has no shadow, and people are wandering. I walk in the dark, afraid that I can't find your direction, leaving me alone in loneliness. I got up, looked up slightly, looked at the gloomy night sky and dyed the world red with ink. Without a glimmer of light, I drowned the traces of your progress. I took my steps and walked to the place where the morning light rose, hoping that the warm and fiery light would light up the road ahead of me and let me see that you have it.

A long, long night, I couldn't wait for the morning light, and I was exhausted. I lay on a reed-covered lake and watched the water flow eastward. Suddenly, I really want to, just like the water, I can freely pursue your leaving figure, even in Qian Shan, I can't stop. I gently close my eyes, wait for the light to come, and then embark on a journey to find you.

As cold as water, it reflected on my face. I opened my eyes and saw the waning moon slowly coming out of the clouds, bringing a lot of light. Then, I was about to get up. In a trance, I seemed to hear a tune coming from the lake. My heart suddenly trembled, so familiar, so familiar. I muttered, and then turned to look at the moonlight pouring down the lake. I saw it. The man in the moonlight is stepping on a boat.