night and stillness

It is no longer night, nor stillness,

For every loneliness has its privacy;

In the eyes of those who enter the forest with their dreams,

Trees also have their quiet and dark ways.

Noisy ghosts seem to roam in silence,

The night blocks the light from falling to the ground.

Mystery seems to have life: everyone can

Explain and feel according to your own memory.

The forest night brings forth the dawn of thought;

Silence is like a bird that sleeps but has wings,

This is really a good thing for writing poetry.

In the forest, the heart is easier to be honest with each other:

The night makes people's eyes darker,

The confession of love cannot be separated from its silence.

Memories in the grass

She reminisced about that odd moment near evening when she took her last walk in the fields. She came to a stream and lay in the grass. She lay there for a long time, feeling herself feel the stream flowing through her body, taking away all the pain and filth: her self, the strange unforgettable moment: she forgot her self, she lost her self, She got rid of herself; there she felt happiness.

This memory produced in her a vague, fleeting, yet so important (perhaps most important) thought that Agnes wanted to capture it in words.

What life cannot bear is not existence, but existence as self. The Creator relies on electronic computers to bring billions of selves and their lives into the world. But beside all these beings, one can imagine a more fundamental being, which existed before the Creator began to create, and the Creator had no influence over this being and does not exert any influence now. Agnes lay in the grass, the monotonous murmur of the creek running through her body, taking away her ego and its filth, she has this basic attribute of being that pervades the sound of time passing, pervades in the blue sky. She knows that from now on, there will be nothing more beautiful

night and stillness

It is no longer night, nor stillness,

For every loneliness has its privacy;

In the eyes of those who enter the forest with their dreams,

Trees also have their quiet and dark ways.

Noisy ghosts seem to roam in silence,

The night blocks the light from falling to the ground.

Mystery seems to have life: everyone can

Explain and feel according to your own memory.

The forest night brings forth the dawn of thought;

Silence is like a bird that sleeps but has wings,

This is really a good thing for writing poetry.

In the forest, the heart is easier to be honest with each other:

The night makes people's eyes darker,

The confession of love cannot be separated from its silence.

Memories in the grass

She reminisced about that odd moment near evening when she took her last walk in the fields. She came to a stream and lay in the grass. She lay there for a long time, feeling herself feel the stream flowing through her body, taking away all the pain and filth: her self, the strange unforgettable moment: she forgot her self, she lost her self, She got rid of herself; there she felt happiness.

This memory produced in her a vague, fleeting, yet so important (perhaps most important) thought that Agnes wanted to capture it in words.

What life cannot bear is not existence, but existence as self. The Creator relies on electronic computers to bring billions of selves and their lives into the world. But beside all these beings, one can imagine a more fundamental being, which existed before the Creator began to create, and the Creator had no influence over this being and does not exert any influence now. Agnes lay in the grass, the monotonous murmur of the creek running through her body, taking away her ego and its filth, she has this basic attribute of being that pervades the sound of time passing, pervades in the blue sky. She knows that from now on, there will be nothing more beautiful