沙丘上的枯草隨風飄散

沙丘上的枯草隨風飄散
咬文嚼字的廢話正逐漸侵蝕著我們的海岸
浪漫詩意的胡說從地平線之外席卷而來
無知可愛的嬰兒望著僅剩的星空發呆
政客和酸民們口水交融歡快一如往昔
時代的偉大使命啊整形邁向全新世紀
信仰是精神奴隸們所珍藏的歲月餅乾
乾旱的草原等不及春天而自焚了

甦醒吧孩子末世即將到來
請封凍你脆弱銷魂的情感
請灰燼你堅強頑固的理性
你只是茫茫宇宙中的一顆矽砂結晶偶爾振動幾下
碎形擴散於全息永恆是一杯昨日才釀的陳年美酒
生命是讓人陶醉的隨機分子
生活卻如此艱難總是測不準
黑洞就在12海里等待著那些勇敢的水手
其中無我因為我在岸邊獨自哭泣懊悔
我沒能想起母親臨走時送給我的最後一抹溫暖微笑
我也不敢回憶迷失在城市街道時的混亂與害怕
冷漠的嘲諷熱烈地行銷著新舊世界之間有點黏又不太黏的第四態
我甚至無法選擇愛著一個什麼
早晨咖啡的餘香慵懶地憐憫著我連午後都省了

沒人理會時間的自閉與任性
無聊的哲學只送不賣
有趣的虛榮宅配到家
誰意識到人類牧場的圍欄已經腐朽你不用瘋狂奔走只需淡定往前
曠野什麼也沒有的曠野除了自由
天空什麼也不在的天空除了自在
完全悲觀地赤裸著離開
沙丘上的枯草隨風飄散

                       —— 寫給自己和遠方

編曲演唱：Suno AI

        Withered Grass on the Dunes, Scattered by the Wind

Withered grass on the dunes, scattered by the wind.

Pedantic chatter gnaws away at our shores,

romantic nonsense sweeps in from beyond the horizon.

An innocent infant stares, dazed, at the dwindling stars.

Politicians and trolls mingle their spittle,

as merry as ever.

O great mission of the age—reshaped,

marching into a new century.

Faith is but a cookie of bygone years,

treasured by the slaves of spirit.

The drought-stricken prairie cannot wait for spring,

and sets itself ablaze.

Awaken, child—the end time approaches.

Freeze your fragile, ravishing emotions.

Turn to ash your stubborn, unyielding reason.

You are but a single grain of silicon sand

in the boundless cosmos, quivering now and then,

fractals spreading across a holographic eternity—

a vintage wine brewed only yesterday.

Life is an intoxicating random molecule,

yet living is so difficult, forever uncertain.

A black hole waits twelve nautical miles away

for sailors bold enough to approach.

But not for me—

I weep alone on the shore, regretful,

for I could not recall my mother’s last

warm smile before she departed.

Nor dare I remember the chaos and fear

of being lost in city streets.

Mockery sells with fervor,

marketing the sticky, half-formed fourth state

between the old world and the new.

I cannot even choose

what—or whom—to love.

The fading fragrance of morning coffee

pities me with its languor,

saving me even the afternoon.

No one minds the autism and whim of time.

Boring philosophy is free to give, never sold;

vanity arrives at your door in stylish delivery.

Who notices the fences of the human ranch

are already rotten?

You need not run madly—

just walk calmly forward.

The wilderness holds nothing—except freedom.

The sky holds nothing—except ease.

Completely, pessimistically, nakedly, I depart.

Withered grass on the dunes, scattered by the wind.

           — Written for myself, and for the distant.