I always want to write a poem for my motherland.
I've always wanted to write a poem for my motherland, but the confusion and hesitation I feel now seem beyond the reach of words. My defiled body is more rotten than the remains in a grave; my chaotic and filthy soul is more lost than a traveler wandering in the fog. What am I yearning for…? I wander aimlessly through the fog, with only a sliver of reason left, needing no more protection. Only a remnant of wildness roams, gradually being swallowed up. The arid Loulan Desert has turned me into a thousand-year-old mummy. My last vestige of consciousness wanders in this boundless desert, carried by the wind, still able to hear the ancient sounds of zithers and lutes. On the passing carriages, surely, lies the longing of that beautiful woman. As the sun sets, I, this thousand-year-old uncorrupted zombie, gaze at the deep sky. The lonely ghosts coming and going around me weep incessantly, as if telling ...