Chapter 69 village in november

I imagine that I am softly talking to myself: What is it like outside the village in November? It is the indifferent sky beside the boundless river; It is the reddish leaves scattered through the fog; It is nostalgia, and so many unspeakable loneliness; Or is it this mountain road that turns back and forth alone? It is the village that is lost, and there is a trace of smoke around; Is it the thatched hut surrounded by bamboos on the white sand? It is the sound of dry wood crackling in the stove fire, Is it the singing of boys necking in the deciduous forest? It was the old farmer who followed the oxen and went far away,

Or the scattered cattle and sheep grazing on the side of the slope? What makes the heart of this November, Whose disease is the soul of November? The mountain col made me stand on a loess wall; In the afternoon, through the clouds and haze, the sun shines! A wild vine stumbled over a corner of an old wall, squinting Two gates erected with bluestones fell by the side of the road Wherever I sit, I go away again, My heart beats the same; before my heart Although disturbed, always like many clouds around, But in a lonely bay of paddy fields, these deserted graves, They'll never tell who's in charge of it all

I fold a stalk to see the longest shadow in the afternoon Gotta wait for November's answer to blow in the breeze.