"It's Thirty Years Now" and the other three songs

"It's Thirty Years Now"

I would pause from time to time and then go on as the wind passed through my fire

Suppose at that time, the wind brings a hint of fog

The north was more northern than it is now, and the houses were rocky

It shone with ivory light, and the girl was my girl

The lights flickered, and my forehead was brighter than it was now

My skin is more forgiving than it is now, isn't it

The warmth in the air suddenly dissipated, and my wet sweater

Wet sweater in the wind and frost, I will definitely love you

My heart with smoky lungs

Yes, and you'll fall in love with a hot salted fish

And the boy in the attic, his arithmetic

"The starry sky plus the soul may equal three"

The market must be magnificent, and that area

The sky where words condense

Let's have a common skin tone and sleep time

"Write a poem for you"

I will make an appointment with you, like a predetermined afterlife and this life

The pen may be imported, and my teeth have something to do with it all

At that time, I will definitely write this poem for you

Or send it to you first and then write it, I don't know

The cows on the hillside in the distance will not have any opinion

When I dig inside my black clothes, it's like digging

The stars of that night broke the law,

Yes, I'll write this through my shirt and with my heart

Something like a poem, must be opened with a colon, and the chest

Every poem will have a chest,

I'll put five horns of stars and the sun on the horizon

The ending is bound to be very lyrical and tearful

Then please take it, sir, please take it

And I will not use an envelope, but a plastic bag

Cannibal Notes

That's when I thought, what are you going to do?

My head, tears keep overflowing and flowing into your napkin

What else is there when you are a beast

You can't do it, yes, if you're hungry, you have to eat

I became obese by eating the three-hundred-line poem I wrote last night

But sir, Mr. Beast, if you want to eat me

Please be gentle, sir, and be sure to start with my head

Tears add bitterness and can be left uneaten, it's true

Follow the sun, the sun in this era

Can't resist the temptation of a dinner knife

The soul is delicious, sir, please sprinkle with salt

Marinate the language inside and out, and dig another hole

The pit is a symbol of dignity, and you have to bury your hands well

My dusty memories should be carefully collected, the older they are, the more fragrant they become

Write a Dead Poem in This Poem

Its head, yes, the short two lines, stormy in the street

Crashing into the torrent of human flesh, it told me it was going to die

Let me forget it, let go of my hand, and move three inches away from its head

And he took out the heart, and poured out the hot soup that was within

Take advantage of the darkness to eat another bowl of noodles, its funeral

It has to be simple, and as a poem, it has to do that

I can dig a hole in this, right now

And its sonnets, with the occasional fragrance overflowing

I will keep its coffin and hold it with both hands

Thirty years later, the sound of rain is passing through the grasslands

Down my window, hitting my forehead and leaving mud