Chapter 12 Mid-term works-12

Condensed in the sky, on the top of the mountain, in the grassland, Fantasy ship, Zephyr loves you from afar, clumps like our minds, you remove In the shoreless sea, touched by the soft sun. is the seed of the storm, the home of freedom, Belittle everything and you sprinkle in the dirt, Yet often soaring higher, With the wind, leaving no trace of wet tears. November 1945 1 Thank you for the tact of your advisers, sir, We have been moved and moved by your call, Our hearts, wills, blood and sweat are sacrificed, The final acquisition turned out to be tool-like cruelty. Your political strategies are very successful,

Every step of selfishness and error paints the people, Never have we heard such beautiful words Sir, please come and lead, we must obey. Thank you for flying over our heads, Talk, push, and instigate behind the scenes; come out to organize With a wave of the hand we must die And you don't change at all: say this is history and revolution. The century of the people: thank you of the prophets, But we are weary of shouting long live and long live; Victorious generals, do not hesitate at all, It is we who tremble, more and more in need of defense. Justice, of course, burns in your hearts,

But we are only coldly bored! If we are powerless to escape from someone, Sir, why don't you show a little mercy. 2 Cruelty comes from our hearts, It had light, it created the world. It's your money, it's my safety, It is a woman's beauty, her gentle breeding. It has been hidden in our love since childhood, It took us many weeps to make it certain. From then on it circulated like a gold coin, It has written history, and it is a great man today. Our cause is nothing but its cause, In the center of success has built its temple, trampled lowest, it rises highest,

It is charity, glory, touching speeches, kind faces. Though no one proclaimed its name, All our light comes from its light; As we breathe in its dust every day, Oh, that trembling of the soul—death and life! 3 Last year we lived on a string of cold zeros, This year we're panting below zero zero zero zero, Like a broken boat, we From the backwaters of last year to the abyss of this year. Suddenly jumped to the throne of seven zeros, Is it the price of gold?Is it food?We are lucky to bask in the sun, 00000000 is our wealth and hope, It slid down again suddenly, and the water submerged up to our necks.

However, the money printing machine has always produced steadily, It saves our lives one by one with swiftness, Add ten zeros to poverty and print out our new existence, We were about to get up and show off, when everything frightened us again. Everything is flying, dancing, laughing, Only we fall and get up, get up and shrink, The huge numbers are like a series of trains, which rush forward violently, We are but its tail, waving behind the point. 4 We wish we could have a hope, Then humiliation, pain, struggle, death, For gallantry runs in our bright blood, But at the heart of bravery: dazed.

We wish we could have a hope, It says: I am not beautiful, but I no longer deceive, Because we see so many dead eyes In our despair shines the fire of tears. When years of suffering ended in silent death, All we expect is a promise, Yet only in the void do we know that we are still nothing but The ancestors of man before happiness came, To open up new points in the nameless darkness, But at this starting point, there is a backlog of shame for many years: The cold pierces the bones of the dead, and destroys our lives, We only hope for a hope as revenge. January 1947 Poor people!they are dead,

We live to enjoy the present and the spring. They lie under the awakened earth, dazed, feel nothing, and we have warm blood, Bright eyes, keen noses, and Ears hear God in the field There are love words in the throats of trees and birds. die, in a tense winter, Like a whirlwind, it stops suddenly outside the wall— They no longer see the beauty of the tree, The beauty of the mountains, the beauty of the morning, the beauty of the green, and everything Little life, with sweet peace, Everywhere thriving; and poor they are dead, Can't wait to plunge into the well of God's poignant loneliness.

Oh listen!Oh look!sit by the window, The birds fly, the clouds flow, the gentle wind blows, Dreaming of dreams, welcoming your own birth in every The morning, the slanting sun, and the passing dusk— All this belongs to God; but poor They died for the careless God, They died in that forgotten rot. February 1947 Weeds, decaying walls, hollow huts, The silent falling tree, the messy silence... Flowing clouds stop unintentionally in the sky, the crows returning in spring Vigorously chattering, flying around the empty field, like discovering and being satisfied with stubborn human beings

The silent rout.abandoned earth is the only word, confided to Spring breeze and sunset—— Dry wind, blow, when scars cut into your heart, No more sigh, no more curling smoke, There are no more footsteps walking back and forth running through The toil of kindness and faithfulness was in vain. Where did they go?that solid root Fixed by clay, insulted by poverty, deformed by malice, but never broken, Like years of problems being cut, they still breed. Where did they go?left the last line, The silent parents, wives and children and shepherd boy? When the most familiar corner is also full of danger, see

Like a vast grave world waiting, Pray for God, ask for help from man, never dare to run forward Actually ran away, cut off the endless years The flowers and leaves are pulled out by the roots, withered and silent, From this nameless place I only beg: Dry wind, let it blow, swirling people's useless memories. The setting sun of spring dawn and the cruelty of vast indifference Dropped omens, when little clumps of huts Like the end of a gloomy life, standing still. Once was the richness and hope of flesh and blood, they opened Empty eyes to the visitors of fields and cities Leave the decision.History has used them up:

its hyperbole and lies and political feats Finally, I sink into the scenery that makes me also panic. Dry wind, blow, when scars cut into your heart, Blowing the small river, blowing across the ridges of the fields, blowing out tears, To the distant master who gave everything! March 1947