In the middle of summer in the south, the humidity and heat are stagnant, and it is unpleasant to come and go. Lao Zhang, who sells fruit in the farmer's market, sat at the counter in the afternoon and pulled his beard in a daze, and suddenly he took a notebook with dropped pages and a ballpoint pen without a hat, and wrote the following poems:

As piercing as an explosion and as scorching as the sun, it is born with condensed qi and blood, and everything that has smelled it cannot be forgotten. Like philosophical proverbs obscure, like political logic fear, it's so different. However, Fan Womb couldn't accept it, and sentenced it to be guilty and gave it a bad name - fox smell.

The night was sultry, the snoring was like thunder, and the thin and slender old Zhang couldn't sleep, so he got up and wrote a poem:

In the dark night, there was a wolf howl, and the sound passed through the grasslands, hills, streets, and rooms, and I followed it step by step, stepping through the vast grasslands, turning over the flowers and hills, wandering the neon streets, and coming to the cozy little house. Whew, whew, whew, one after another, night after night. At the moment I am in the hut, and I am in the grassland.

One day it rained less than a twenty-three fast fruit money, wearing a white vest Lao Zhang was scolded by his wife for a long time, after his wife entered the kitchen, he sighed, writing like this: love is like socks, the more through the smell, not wearing it.

In October, Lao Zhang, who was poor in donkey skills, had a dry brain, and suddenly a guest nagged and made a half-day price. After the end, Lao Zhang sat idly and breathed, and his leisure heart suddenly gave rise to inspiration: if you don't bargain, I will earn, and if you bargain, I will also earn, because my old Zhang family has seven acres of orchards; I will compensate for a bad year, and I will still compensate for a good year, because the housing situation is the year.

After his sixty-seventh birthday, he was sixty-eight the next day. The years are ruthless, the old man is sad, and he splashes ink with his pen: time will take away my wrinkled and foul-smelling body at any time, but it will never strangle my passionate and resolute soul.

In winter, one night when my wife came out of cooking and was afraid that the hot porridge would burn the plastic tablecloth, she tore off a pile of mats from the poetry book in the drawer with one hand. Lao Zhang picked up the basin and drank the porridge, moved his mouth and found that his poem was integrated with an oil-seeping mat, and raised his head to glare at his wife.

"What? Do you remember what you wrote? More than a dozen poetry collections, you dare me to take a test? Do you remember the poems you wrote more than ten years ago? What's the difference between forgetting and throwing it away? Besides, I'm just padding the table, and I don't look at it when I use it up? The wife's mouth was full of oil, and after speaking, she raised her chin and continued to hold the meat.

Lao Zhang was helpless and felt that there was something to say. After the meal, the frustrated poet took up his pen and wrote: Muddy and dirty reality, don't be hostile to me, because I am a fighting poet!

In the spring of the following year, the fresh lychees are almost in season, and Lao Zhang's wife contacted a ripe fruit farmer and distributed the goods in advance at her house, and the sales were particularly good. That day, a boss came over to ask for ten catties of lychees, and Lao Zhang's wife hurriedly bandaged them. Who wants to be punctured by the lychee branch stem with several bags in a row. Lao Zhang's wife couldn't do it, so she took an old book from the broken bookshelf and tore it off in three or two pages to wrap the branches. A few poems were torn up, and Lao Zhang had been looking forward to it, opening his mouth and stammering throughout the whole process, scratching his ears and panting angrily. After the guests left, his wife glared at Lao Zhang wantonly with melon seeds.

"What?"

"No."

Lao Zhang saw that the other party was more imposing, so he held his breath and went back to the house, and then turned his anger into poetry: Beautiful fireworks, please light my dry bones; Typhoon in the South China Sea, please sweep away my cowardice; Falcons of the plateau, please peck at my soul. O just god, please engrave the word poet on my tombstone after I die!

In just three days, Lao Zhang's fruit stall relied on lychees to make a net profit of 2,000, but it also tore off Lao Zhang's five hard work. This night, Lao Zhang's wife counted the money and saw that the old man was still sulking, and after closing the stall, she found this poem, and she was very happy. Later, she made five meals of braised pork in a row to save a poet's heart.

"You can't publish this poem, when you sell lychees, you bandage them and take them away, maybe there is no place for people to put lychee shells after eating, so you just spread out your poems and look at them idlely! Isn't that the same as publishing? Afterwards, Lao Zhang's wife explained.

The words are reasonable, the poet is happy, and after that, he is no longer entangled, and he has also contributed three additional poetry collections. It's a pity that the lychees are being sold in the market for a few days, the business is not good, and the poetry collection is nowhere to be packed.

At the end of April, Lao Liu, who had collected tatters, came to find Lao Zhang, and after the tricycle drove to the door, he shouted at Lao Zhang: "Do you still write poems?" I went to the company today and received a lot of books, do you need them? ”

"I'll see!"

Lao Zhang happily ran out, picked and picked in Lao Liu's carriage, and picked up all the things that could write. The two elders were proud and waved goodbye. If you get a treasure, thousands of thoughts, and finally write in a big book as white as snow and as thick as Xuan: The dark clouds are gone, and the sky is full of flowers; All things are entangled, only I am at ease. In the depths of despair, moisturize the health regimen; If you lose your way, you will get better.

In May, a branch of periwinkle grows in the cement crack outside the kitchen, and the old Zhang thief is happy, and the poem is as follows: Spring flowers in the stone, fragrant in the evening, out of greasy, survive the rainy season, create and bloom intentionally. Drunk and gorgeous, such as dancing on the stage, like running wildly in the arena, it is the pinnacle of life and the infinite realm. Someday, the breeze will bring her fluttering butterflies.

Today I received a message from a friend, I haven't been in touch for a few years, and today I suddenly learned that my friend will graduate from a German university with a doctorate and will work as a teacher at a university in China next year. After chatting, I was sincerely envious, very emotional, and I was in a daze for a long time, thinking about how my fate had come to this point, but to no avail. I feel like the poet in this article, funny, humble, and full of fighting spirit in the real world. "The Poet Who Sells Fruits" is reissued again today to encourage me to burst into tears and no longer be young.

(End of chapter)