Great happiness

endless happiness belongs to those who were born

close to the sun

the galaxy can see them

in love

walking

crying

moving around

carrying in their hands

a clock

that comes from the core of a rare earth

greater than all the unknown

more magnificent

the universe

extending infinitely in all directions

a black hole

extending downward

to the invisible

the weightless

living blood flowing

the stars above

the people living in the sky above

dust rejoicing among them

freely

men women and children

joy loneliness and love

floating

maturing

illuminating the sky with colors

they're everywhere

walking loving crying

the molecules in their soul

come from a galaxy

in the sky.

The perspective

of all styles of shapes

stepping on the lines of music

spinning in a painting

in the depths of impression

a postural language

opening into the garden of flowing lines

of a model

surfacing a solitary world

outside of languages.

Time is a stream

an eternal puzzle

purging thoughts into the night

the unfinished lovesickness

before happiness awakes

is just more excuses

to write the moonlight

into poetry.

Happiness is like,

grandpa's smoking pipe,

breathing tranquil frequencies,

like grandma's needlework,

knitting sweaters with embroideries,

like a radio,

antenna of thanksgiving,

the harvest of beautiful melodies.

If there's a rock
facing the sun
for me to sit on
a warm bright sun
that shines upon me
a clear stream
flowing tinkling
in front of me
and some free time
for me to spend
freely
i'm a happy man.

The castle in the smoke
sneaking
like a reptile foraging
in the city
tirelessly
the blue-colored flame
awaiting the servants
the colors of sounds
staining
all over shadiness
the scarecrow with a hat
stumbling through
the dark
the wand of a magician
melts away
the ancient bed
and the love
locked in the sarcophagus.

Night
guzzled the day
drawing creative grafitti
his way
veiling gray hazy silhouettes
mining the hourglass of time
groping for the stream
of life.

Did you hear a golden star perish in the forest
it's the acacia manumited from the branches
did you feel a greenish pressure
it's the breeze sliding down from the leaves.

A river
flowing mightily
it encounters the plains
she slows down her pace
but
this tender land can't keep her
and she needs to continue
he bumpy journey
drifting is her destiny
drifting to the other side of the ocean
and back again
mountains and valleys
make things difficult
for her
she just
lifts her head up
higher
and one day
a philosopher sees her
lauds her
and seems to hear her say
drops of water made her what she is
today
and it is her duty
to take them to the sea.

The sound of
a flute
the whistle of the wind
an old-century bel canto
more ambrosial than
the allayed gale on the book
a siccative for the soul
beautiful and fibrous
warmer than the divinity
with a broken arm
outdoor on the walkway
the sound of flute
the wording of beauty
like being faced with the spring
and the cliffs
the first tone erodes
the stones
the second tone ******
the bones
the thrid tone captured
the thrills at the ends
of the neurons
like waking up
on a divan
in a morning.

Walking alone,
at the seaside,
relishing,
mountains,
trees and flowers,
watching,
escarpment,
cliff and clear water,
at the foot,
the sea and clouds,
united,
on the horizon,
the sky further,
further away,
the sea,
wider still,
and wider.

A sketch
A cigar burning,
smokes,
loitering indoor,
the acrid smell,
abrading,
the undersize room,
a solitary versifier,
at a table with,
rose motif,
scribbling,
the longings of stars for the clouds,
the pyrotechnics flickering,
the heat of wine,
evanescing.
Sleepless,
in the dead of night,
the fountain pen,
stranded on the paper,
staining,
arbitrarily,
till the break of day,
rendering,
ink wash painting,
a lifelike,
buttonneire of roses,
delivering,
words unspoken,
intricate sentiments.

The wind lifts you up
the waves are
your angry face
calmness is
your supple beauty
the tide is
your love for the earth
because in your blood
every drop of it comes from
the rivers on the land
the breadth of your mind
makes you immeasurably
wise and sophisticated
your underwater world
nourishing all lives
constituting
a huge natural ecosystem
the world is gorgeous and colorful
because of you
you don't change your character
your passion
your glamor
your vision
never
you believe that life is
always wonderful
and a sincere life is
your feelings that
come from
afar.

Outside the window
autumn coming
singing the song
of the valley.
The cattle in the countryside
awakened the autumnal breeze
the flowers next to the hill
drinking the autumnal dews
the golden waves of grain
clapping
all are listening
to this.

Sharpness
of a grain of sand
touches
the nostalgia in
the eye
chrystalizes
the escaping snow
an oil paper umbrella
hurt by
the winter
that took french leave
the fragrance of plum
torn and incomplete
between the dark and damp
narrow tunnel
the pearl of ideas
polished
the wind that
can't be caged
is searching
youthful days
the hasty footsteps
the tethered ideals
in a pond
in a city
caressing
old porcelain
a pool of water
aiming at
the color of willow
on the other
side of the dreamscape.

A thousand ships
crawling over your back
lying on two oceans
connecting the north and south
a commotion after nap
startling
the billows of the Pacific Ocean
and the waves of the Atlantic Ocean
a life in meditation
the dam to
the raised river that flows
through history
through generations
through a stranger's dream
through civilization and sin
banners with distinct color tones
hanging all over every port
with the attitude of an owner
welcoming
all visitors
Panama
a ship that travels
a river that connects
the world.

Picking up,
the moon,
from a creek,
watery shadow,
silvery tears,
esconced in,
the the waterlilies.
the sleepless koi,
the gliding joy,
in my dream,
a widening net,
spread,
everyday,
over a gurgling rivulet,
salvaging,
your smile.

Meteor shunting,
in the sky,
with a bucket of dream,
she is a meteor,
in the city,
and the meteor is,
the broken dream,
of the sky.

Wind
plucking the strings of
the bare branches
coldness filling
a goblet
a story unguessable's
had its ending
love collides in the time and space
becomes incomplete
a heart
intoxicating
a universe.-

In a pure world
music and birdsong
spinning
the lingering
melancholy
no more sadness
only memories
and longings
prostrating on the trails
of yellow leaves
counting the rhythms
of loneliness
the handsomeness of the island
the dreaminess of
the susurration of the beach
the elegance of the sails
the water as always
beating the stippled quietness
awaiting the next dawn
a ketch drifting on the ocean
shining a turquoise light
portraying the poetry
of the predawn
or the predawn hilarity of
the fish and shrimps
in the ocean
this is a pure world
and there is music
and running water in it
and the samisen of moods
and the psaltery
of the nature
whats more
the happy pixies shuttling
in the forest
of purity.

In the theater
under the indigo curtain
of night
the lovely fruits still have
the wings of leaves
dazzling earrings joggling
shining
in a night
punctiliously built
by you
behind you is
a sodden wall
like the part of the world
that is cold
a song without tears
is the shrill of rocks
on the precipice
there's
too much imagination
trekking.

The lullaby of cicadas
has put the village
to sleep
at this moment
strips of waxen haze
swaying
every household
slowly.

Where to find,
another self,
time,
rinsing memories,
now,
trying to escape,
the thoughts of,
the times,
to go to the barren desert,
to icy antarctic,
to a one-man territory,
where there's only,
you
and your shadow.

Specks of stars,
crushed in the jam-packed sky,
thus powdery light,
spilled down,
on earth.

Dream of the day,
dream of the night,
are just,
subtleness of neon,
you on the ground,
stars in the sky,
are an,
integrated part of,
a trance.

Sometimes,
i wish you're a speedy horse,
and sometimes,
i wish you're a snail,
but if you'd let me,
i wish i could be your owner.

Northern lights
The breath of wind,
blowing open the door,
of the heart,
letting the petals of dream in,
a kind of feeling,
falling in love with the screen of heaven,
playing a video of,
pictures of memories,
the lost season,
the northern lights,
hot boiling dream lost,
in the direction of the,
lights,
a touch of coolness,
awakened,
shimmering silks of light,
of dawn,
awating.

Under the eaves,
the jangling
clanking raindrops,
asked a slate,
"Listen carefully,
did i break something",
was it a fresh surprising dream,
or a fragmented mood,
the slate wordless,
suspiring.

Stars chasing stars,
hills chasing,
hills,
trees running,
lurking,
blink of an eye,
all disappears without a trace,
everything in haste,
the past catching up,
then disappears,
hastily,
the same vastness,
the moon,
speaks of its thoughts and loneliness,
lengthy flowing in the hills,
meditating on the train of life,
silently counting,
the fleeting platforms.

Traversing,
a snowfield,
walking,
into the woods,
shadows of leaves,
disappeared,
winter wind overhead,
can't blow away,
the only figure,
here,
reeds flickering,
along the trace of dream,
searching,
a sound like magnet,
tenderness like water,
warmth like fire,
through the transient,
sunshine.

The sky is
a calendar
written with the clouds
the sun smiling
day after day
the sea is
a calendar
written with isles
waves and vessels
the propellers rotating
day after day
a calendar on the table
rusty shovel
and hammer singing
paint brush dancing
day after day.

Without true feelings
the most magnificent of words
is nothing but
stuffing or
a pile of bricks
like a bouquet of
artificial flowers
lacking aroma
lifeless
and stuffy
no need for mysteries
just simplicity
let the words stand
at the right positions
or
just put them in
a corner where
the soul is most vulnerable
the solid ice will soon melt
into sunlight
and silence
reading a good poem
is like reading your first love
a momentary thrill of the soul
a sudden bright light
in front of you.

Standing keen deep in the river
of time
feeling the water
flowing slowly
slowly through
my fingers
watching the stars in the sky
listening to the deafening
croaks of frogs
breathing in
the dense wet
water vapor
smelling the grasses
on the shore
the distant wheat
watching the fish
chasing each other
at my feet
listening to the nightingale
singing on a high branch
this is just so
relaxing.

Places we've been to
together
breaths scattered by the wind
gathered in the falling petals
the riverside of April
the peas blossomed with butterflies
memories amongst the clear ripples
are
the endless
vow.

In my childhood
the other side of the ocean
entrusted with wishes
wishes wandering in the sea
growing up
the other side of the ocean
entrusted with an ideal
running on the surface
then flying
soaring.

What is lucky
is it
a passerby who fell down
and found a gold coin
is it
travellers who discovered
ancient secrets
when they took shelter in
a cave
is it the impartial
arrow of cupid
a soldier who was
saved in midst of
gunfire
is it
catching the last train
is it
a ragged beggar
who acquired a 5-dollar meal
is it
a ray of breeze that
deviates the bullet from
its trajectory
lucky is
the fullness of the spirit
the attendant of happiness
the inception of laughter
the heir to
the lucky stone.

The fog spreading
the sunlight trapped
in the cage of the mountains
the village respiting
trees sleeping
soil meandering
the road
screaming.

The taste of happiness
still remains
in the streetcorner
the colored days
turning into a good song
time and distance
can never break
the gate valve
of friendship.

Tonight
there's a
jasper in the sky
the dews rinsing
the dust
the breeze conveying
the sounds of nature
the weary footsteps of birds
like the clock on the wall
and busyness reverted
to tranquility
and tonight
there's a jasper
in the sky.

Yesteday
some memory's been lost
like clouds
like rain
like moon
like the path beneath the moonlight
like the shadows on the path
today
a trace of sound's picked up
its the sea
its the boat on the sea
its the paddles on the boat
the sail on the ship
memory drew a route
while the sound's
in
another harbor.

Don't you feel tired
moving back and forth
pulled by the sun and moon
the pattern of mechanism
the weariness of the waves
the sorrows and joys
become
the umpteen
stories.

The silent night
and silent ocean have
the silent moonlight
no wind
no ripples
beneath the silent lamps
are the silent eyes
the ocean knows
a lot of stories of
mermaids
and shipwrecks
and why does it still remain
silent
in the silent night
don't wanna watch the stars
just wanna know
whether the storm has sounded
when will the rain come
where does the wind rest
when will the waves
wake
tonight
wanna leap into the ocean
to shatter the silent surface
and tear the silent
color of night.

Vines crawling
on the old mottled wall
fog bypassing
the fence
enveloping the entire
chalet
the mystic sky over the castle
a lightning awakening
the gloomy valley
ghosts and goblins floating
around
extinguishing white candles
a witch with a broom
the silver haired wizard in a black hat
standing in the darkness of spells
the enchanted princess sleeping
in the black chalet
prince charming leading a team of
knights
sinister roses blooming quietly
spitting murky fog
tongues of flames light up the dark tunnel
the prince kills the bloodthirsty bats witches and
a clan of phantoms
the prince kisses to wake the princess who’s been asleep
for a millenium.

Sleeping in the palm of unformed,
time,
reading the almanac,
of the coldness of,
moon,
the first section is,
an achromatic afternoon,
the setting sun,
arranged the gloaming,
in the last line of,
a familiar paragraph,
the footprints,
awake at the end of,
the avenue,
the page turned,
stamped with deep,
soliloquy,
and it’s said that,
the illustrations on the cover,
are the unfinished snow of,
last year.

Snowflakes,
peregrinating,
the anonymous sky,
the majestic earth,
embracing,
the glistening crystal,
gift,
hoping the time and space,
could stop,
hoping that,
time could stroll a little,
and linger.
Spotless snow,
muddy roads,
whos messing with,
whose hope.

Life is
like a painting
in it
there’s always
a quest for the moon
hung aloft
and the sempiternal secret
of the sun
there’s always
unchained serenity
the axiom of
the harmony of nature
there are always
lofty mountains
close to heavens
not so far away
a twisty river
peregrinating
not a mirage
a boat carrying
dreams of a millenium
leisurely smokes curling
atop a chalet
birds flying
into the sky of liberty
fish swimming
toward the horizon
of ecstasy
the baby wind
asleep amidst a copse of trees
alive in this
simple peaceful
idyllic painting.

The night,
the beach,
the jungle,
the footsteps,
moon rising,
sea tempting,
the addiction,
the undulating waves,
her breath,
in the water,
fish who know not sadness,
corals,
a surprise,
seabed,
moist and warm,
raging,
surging,
emotional waves,
secrets about life,
wind plucking the strings,
murmurings of a song,
ebb tide,
the beach,
moribund.

Moonlight in the water,
the pond so sensational,
fireflies come and go,
a lilac-woven psalm,
a charming dream,
purple ocean and the mighty prairie,
stars flickering like a fairytale,
the clank of vows,
just a curtain of dream,
wind rises like love,
from the heart.