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Crystal clear

  The poet Duo Yu wrote a poem:
  ”The carpenter at the entrance of the village is grinding a yoke of ox, the hard scab of
  oak , a perfect arc, and
  he has been doing this all day long for
  his young daughter, Mei Qian. Carrying a bamboo basket, I
  went to neighboring village to buy a piece of tofu and prepared lunch.
  She only did this one thing all day.
  They were not in a hurry, because there were similar things. The
  second day, the third day…waiting for
  them “Life is crystal clear”
  I love doing one thing all day, I love being crystal clear, and this life seems to have been away from me for a long time. All kinds of hustle and bustle in life are overwhelming, and “quietness” has become a luxury.
  The days are getting shorter, and the promises we have made are getting more and more. When the children have summer vacation, we will go to make up for a honeymoon trip; when the children go to college, we will go to Xishuangbanna to see butterflies, or go to Tibet and walk As soon as I walked the mountain road that Tsangyang Gyatso crawls…
  how long has it been since I watched the happy children on the merry-go-round? How long has it been since you heard the sound of raindrops falling? How long has it been since you carefully smelled the fragrance of a flower? It’s been a long time since I stared at a cloud, like the cat by the window…
  My cousin in the countryside told me that his daughter couldn’t stay in Shanghai any longer, and she had to come back, saying that when she was in her hometown, that day , Fast is fast, slow is slow, the heart always has a time to fall, it is not like there, hanging and floating every day, in a hurry like going to the market. It’s like putting the fish in the clear river water in the countryside into the fish tank in the city. Although it can barely survive, it has no energy.
  The cousin desperately drove the child out, but the child desperately swam back. The child has roots, and she just wants to come back and live a clear life.
  Such clear days, long ago, were full of fragrance.
  The smoke from cooking long ago, no one would define as pollution, they went straight into the sky, wiping the sky bluer and bluer.
  In the land of the long ago, all kinds of plants grew freely, and there was no need to classify them, and there was no need to unify the rivers and lakes. No rules are rules.
  At that time, I planted dense, green lettuce on the edge of the pond, because it was the goose’s favorite food. But one day, the goslings were stolen, but I was reluctant to pull out those lettuces. They grew freely and gradually dyed the pond green. Which brings me to the question, are we loving the gift life gives us, or are we loving life itself?
  Xu Yi wrote in “The Taste of Old Times”: “10-year-old happiness is steamed, and food is fresh; 20-year-old happiness is stir-fried, and food is raw; 30-year-old happiness is already braised, and food is fresh. Aftertaste; as for the future, it will be the Buddha jumping over the wall with mixed flavors and long-lasting fragrance.”
  If time can go back, I hope this world can return the sadness to the poet, return the hope to the spring breeze, return the pure snow to the winter, and return the pure snow to the winter. I returned the rain to the river, and the crying stars to the night sky… In the
  afternoon, I went to the mail room to pick up the publications sent by the magazine, and when I saw the “Poetry Monthly”, a warm feeling spread. I was moved by the way the large envelopes were delivered with stamps. Now everything is “fast”, many magazines are delivered by express, and “Poetry Monthly” is always mailed in this way, it is inevitable that there is a risk of losing it, but at the same time, I have experienced another wonderful state of it—— Poetry should be delivered to our hearts in such a slow way.
  When I turned around, I saw Granny taking a nap in the mail room, while Granny was cooperating and yawning. It was a lazy afternoon, so beautiful.
  I simply slowed myself down. Play a soothing tune, quietly, and hear any drop of water in the music. A leaf floats in from the window, on my desk, I see it as a sleeping butterfly, an uninvited gift.
  At this moment, I just want to be an indifferent old horse, chewing on the past while slowly declining. Maybe the memory is a little fuzzy, but its eyes are as clear as a pool of spring water.

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