Yan Dawei's works

Reading Xichuan on a bus stop in winter

Reading Xichuan on a bus stop in winter

My hands and feet are cold. Night has fallen

The cold wind in December has blown over China

and I have also received the cold

and the leaping flame in the poem

rising and blending in my heart, but at this moment

all my waiting is frozen in the north wind

This is an accused life, without

. Those cry signs that tore the sky

eventually turned into silence, like a joke that

didn't leave a sound. Only you

have to bear it with me. That's your melancholy

look. You can only stare through the glasses with dew

and tighten your lips, but you can't

expose this secret in the sun. That's < Those great

memories are doomed to drown us, and there is no moment's rest with the long life. This is the meaning of no choice

. We have it, and then

explore it ourselves, and

miss the broken dream in those painful retrospections, which is your contribution

the privilege of a poet that no one can refuse < I heard the call of the earth

Mars floated out of the furnace of history

like a forging poem, which forged me and changed me, reminding me

that it is not far away, and spring

began to exercise. That's the agreement between us

it's a glorious ribbon that no one can escape

it's lightning, and a proverb of Peterak

it's the garden of God, and it's Milton and Haizi

whispering at the cradle. Humans are silent

in suffering, and choose to embrace

and then write their inner love. In the vast northern and western plateaus,

The gods have fallen asleep at dusk, and in the snow,

there is no whistling of yesterday's arrow that crosses tomorrow.

It's some deja vu faces.

I shouted to them in my prayers.

This is our own land, this is China.

It's winter in December, which penetrates our chests.

. Take this light

to travel far, poet. Night is our

ultimate love, and we announce the dawn

, which is the suffering given to us by darkness. It's

the memorial to death that we must ask for

the poem

Motherland

I want to weave all my dreams into garlands

and put them on the hills where the years rest

Hundreds of millions of ancestors once gathered their blood as rivers

Now we are also driving this dragon called China

I want to weave all the white clouds into white. And waiting for the gradual drying up

all the lost and abandoned silent ice-covered history

I can't seek this last prayer as comfort for the time being

At the foot of the mountain, we use our bodies as stones to make up the sky

This bronze full of inscriptions suppresses the flowing storm

and is buried in the Millennium Tomb Palace with all the nervous breathing

. I was also thrown into the jumping fire again

Standing on the edge of the earth, my footprints suddenly broke and tears surged

The hand that lifted the sun from the other side of the mountain was still called Phoenix

The poem "Flowers in the sky"

The flowers in the sky are lotus

but they are not lotus born in water

The flowers in the sky are the moon

But they can never wander alone. She snickered among the dense leaves

This smile smelled by butterflies is like a new glass of wine

The flower in the sky is my bride

She hung her curtain shyly in the spring sedan chair

She crooned on the side of the female wall

She read my heart like a song sung for thousands of years

In the air. The flower in the sky is not even a melodious flute in the hands of a shepherd boy.

She is just a cantata of birds jumping on the branches of dawn.

The flower in the sky is not a tear on Chang 'e's pillow in the dead of night.

She used to be a petal falling quietly on the steps.

The poem "The Island of Dreams"

It is a distant home.

It is also a harbor of your soul.

Love

There is a green sea like wine below

There is a purple cloud-like skirt in the air

There is also a small island like a dream

An incomplete heart

The sunshine jumps over the waves and climbs up the rocks

The breeze blows over the lawn and wraps around the treetops

The shallow mountains are water waves

You have lived in. In the middle of the night, I often hear Jiao Ren's song

and Zhenzhu's tears fall into the sea

You go

Maybe tonight

The stars are not dim

I'll send you a plum blossom with snow

The spring you brought back to the south for me

or

. The river is just around the corner

I'll give you my arms when I'm tired

When the sun rises in the Ming Dynasty

We'll anchor our boat on the island of dreams

Just by the sea of spring flowers and hopes

The poem Thoughts in the Rain

It's raining again

Whenever I look at the clouds where you are, Low and heavy

just like the moment when you are about to turn around

So was the rain many years ago

You counted the raindrops

Covered the wet mood with a faint smile

Singing and disappearing into the corridor outside the classroom

Your story will never be finished

Put your hot and cold little hand in my palm. You sent me a lot of strange questions

and then blushed and tore up my answers bit by bit

When the drizzle first dyed the green willows,

The stones you threw into the middle of the lake startled flocks of waterfowl

They were full of ancient secrets and refused to put their schoolbags on my shoulders

After a long silence, you curled your mouth and looked at the ever-changing window

.

Then seriously examine my unfinished topic in the math book

When the dark clouds cleared,

You took my hand along the river to find a pasture for your soul

Leaning on my shoulder, your drowsiness could never be awakened by the sun

Breaking away from my embrace, you turned your face and smiled painfully

Your steps in the rain. Short strings make it difficult to dream passionately, and peace of mind of the ancients is home.

the clouds are crossing, the sun is fading, and the painting is infinite in the eyes of the mountains and rivers. There is no reason to get the cuckoo language, so it is called the Golden Wind Dance.

the prose poem

The dark clouds on the horizon are getting lower and lower. I know that for a long time, you have suffered too much in your heart. The restless rain beads are clamoring in the clouds, and my tender waiting is still silent.

this rain has been brewing for too long. The heat wave on my face is suffocating everything. Weeds are growing wildly in the fields. The sudden wind roared in the forest.

but the raindrops come so quietly. I don't know if she inquired about your open casement in advance. And when she visited my dream, the earth was already in deep silence. So I touched those rustling songs and my longing for unfinished dreams. And what I can't bear to leave behind is not just the memories of the past years. It's just that I can't remember whether the continued dream is still complete.

The hibiscus you once picked with your own hands is now quietly blooming in Lanzeli on the other side. And the surging waves angrily imprisoned my bamboo raft wading across the river. Ficus pumila and Laura in the mountains are still silent. But I can't identify which magnolia or the fragrance of the night was your tears to hide your tears and sigh.

Tonight, the raindrop's mind no longer stays in the Bashan night talk of cutting candles at the west window. And after all, you gave it back to me when I didn't wake up, quietly leaving without saying goodbye.

the smoke has faded, and the night will dawn. You will also embark on the farthest journey in the world. Thousands of years of Chu water has no longer left traces of the past. You are still fascinated by wandering alone, but I am stubbornly content with the lonely guardian.

Essay "Green Water fir outside the window"

The rain outside the window is still pattering. The green of Metasequoia glyptostroboides is flowing in the breeze.

I remember sitting in front of this row for the first time, and it was still silent and bleak outside the window. The dark pine needles of the pine trees on the back hill tremble in the cold wind. The smell of spring is always too late.

But natural surprises are always unprepared. But who will care about all this? Only when Ting Wei and I saw the smoky green looming at the top of the Metasequoia tree near the window, a long-awaited warmth came gently. Our hearts will be speechless.

Now, when we are about to leave, it is not a pleasant thing to meet Metasequoia glyptostroboides outside the window again, and have the honor to sit in the park with them.

The green of Metasequoia glyptostroboides is very different from other trees. It is a kind of soft green, a kind of delicate green, a kind of green with endless freshness and vitality forever. It flows like a clear spring in the breeze, has been flowing through people's dreams, and then seeps into people's most secret hearts. However, everything is so traceless.

Many days have passed quietly. In a blink of an eye, the hardships of trekking, the anxiety of waiting and the sadness of sorrow have gradually become the clouds of the past. How long and short everything is! But the Metasequoia outside the window is always so silent.

I don't know how many times it rained these days, and I don't remember how long there was a drought. It's just clusters of flowers that bloom and fall in the rain. Round after round, the moon was round and lost on the hill. Metasequoia glyptostroboides outside the window, even if it loves me, has it ever really cared for it! After all, my own affairs have often made me too busy with headaches.

But Metasequoia glyptostroboides is tall and beautiful day after day. It only through this relentless wind and rain, gave birth to more and more joyful green. Everything happened quietly in those unnoticed times. The tenacity of poplar can attract the praise of writers, and the simplicity and majesty of ginkgo can arouse the poet's sigh, but no one has ever stood under its tree for a moment in the green water fir outside the window.

However, Metasequoia still silently endured all this. Perhaps, how can it care about these! It only dedicates the green flowers from tree to tree to Mother Nature, and it only leaves the lush green branches to the homing birds in the sunset. It always straightens its body, looks up to meet the blue sky, and welcomes every dusk and dawn of its own.

I suddenly feel that, in fact, pain is always inevitable in life. Only after experiencing extremely vivid pain can a real self be perceived so deeply and the fragility and preciousness of life be understood so thoroughly. Joy is always fleeting and comes and goes without a trace. However, the pain in memory is often new. Only the pain of burning our hearts makes our footprints more visible when we come. From such a mark, we know that this rugged and difficult journey that we have stepped out step by step has not disappeared at the crossroads that drift with the tide.

I often think that all kinds of creatures in nature, including human beings, are indifferent to nature. All life that is based on and in harmony with nature has its inevitable value for nature, but this value does not need to be known by the ontology of life. Moreover, life itself is priceless, and no secular standard can be used as a measure of life.

What I especially love is the green of Metasequoia glyptostroboides outside this window. What I admire especially is the greatness of their lonely survival, which is still thriving in the desolate and unpredictable wind and rain.

Perhaps, in the late autumn of this year, the green leaves of this tree will also fall in the chilly rain. But the greenness of Metasequoia glyptostroboides will also brew the joy of new life in the cold snow. Although every season's life is short, life itself is eternal and infinite, the green of Metasequoia glyptostroboides will never wither, and the pace of youth will never stop. This is the greatest comfort and encouragement to the soul.

the sound of rain outside the window is fading away, and the wind is gradually stopping. Twilight arrival in the silent mountains, rows of Metasequoias seem more and more safe, and worries gradually calm down from my heart.