Long River Ember Video

Ember Shadow Lead As the moonlight decays, the bronze vessels ooze fingerprints from past lives. Don't count the copper coins on the river, they are all pawned by the drowned in the afterlife. In the cracks of the jade pendant on the belly of the fish, the eyes of the drowned man are staring at your fate-throwing hand. The firefly on the rotting grass flutters past the pillow with last words in its mouth, love is stirring in the phosphorus sac, a baby spirit will burst out of the sac on the night of the winter solstice, and the wedding paper you secretly kept thirty years ago is embedded in the nail seam. The green rust in the mirror has already revealed the secret: Three thousand of you drank in the river of forgetfulness, but they are just the drafts of the Taotie pattern in the world. The moss on the tombstone usurps the eulogy, and the prophecy you scraped off is eating into the throat along the palm prints. The paper horse stepped out of the ashes and the bloody general stepped out, and the horseshoes splashed with sparks. It was actually your first cry when you were born. The old scar on the wrist is a circular epitaph, buried with the mildewed acacia tent, the unburned paper boat, and the bleeding seventh turn of the colorful feathers. When the quicksand sings nursery rhymes, when the shadow of the wordless monument swims out of the ink spring, when regret condenses into the cry of reincarnation - this book of life and death written in the coffin is originally the pain splashed on the tortoise shell when the blood vessels of heaven and earth burst. In the star map hanging upside down at the bottom of the well, you and I are all prophecies fabricated by the moonlight and rotten soil, forever rewriting the numerology tampered with by the powder of butterfly wings and scales.