At Zero

At zero, there is the stillness in the swing of the clock. Yin and Yang are in balance. My arms are clamped, my brows are furrowed, and I have a soft spot. On the edge of life consciousness, I take on the sword and shadow.The figure whizzed in with a mask and left silently. It turned into high mountains, or plains. Singing with a cuckoo, letting go of love, hate, and a river. Father and mother walked from the river to the earth. Good sons and daughters, walk through the green apple to the village.The pendulum doesn’t move, presses the name of the ups and downs, and makes a knot. Time rusts at zero o’clock.
The figure is an ancestor, sealed in the booklet, and the left body gives up the home,wandering around zero hour. The pendulum does not move. A finger quietly poke out, da da da. Is it you?
Coming and going,
Connected with blood and thought.