My conversations and
two-string fiddle
— miniature Prose poetry
"At the foot of the piece of clay, each grabbed a, will hold a bleeding."
— poet MangKe
Who is crying? Not the voice of melody, the echo into the exhaustion of the season
Traces of the heart lost, kissed, just want to let the weak pulse aphasia in touching with you
Sober tea cups, modulation of Musical Instruments, only the two-string fiddle in individual wheat night scenery
