In the book, you are in the blue light yellow scroll of rough minister Awang, wise China scholar and Lausanne Doggi master ... Oh! Joni, the son of snowy area and motherland, shines with the light of Himalayas on his head, and the umbilical cord sucks the nutrition of Kyushu, China. The monsoon outside the mountain comes slowly. In the song of prosperity, the party's kindness ignites the red day, and the charming scene continues to extend in the new wind of the times. Under the white clouds, deep in the grass, happy and saturated folk songs flow on the hills. In the fluttering of hunting flags, girls who are eager to open up with Gesang, like snow lotus, come into my poems, filled with the fragrance of youth. How many times have I rested on the grass, slept in flowers, walked out of the grass, and couldn't get out of the wet memory of love songs. The thick Tibetan customs propped me up like a dream. In my mind, Uncle Tashi let go of the smoke in the kitchen ... Following the fragrance of the black land, my beloved highland barley once again thrived in my father's sweat. In the mother's persistent gaze, the peach blossom bloomed as scheduled, and the scarlet petals set off the ancient village. In the world of wheat fragrance, the joy of harvest floats with the wind ... In the woodland of Taonan, flowers are blooming, and in the days when mushrooms are blooming, the quiet heart and the silver-haired grandmother. Turn the prayer wheel and listen to the Buddha's voice with a sacred expression. This ancient temple is long and quiet. In the picturesque fairyland, I saw the illusion of heaven. What I can't forget is the beauty of Dayugou, the elegance of truck ditch and the beauty of pot ditch. With the breath of mountains and rivers and Shui Ze, my passionate soul turns into a magical nine-color bird, perched in the eternal snow of Dieshan, and bathed in the auspicious feeling of Buddha forever in the cycle of years and the change of seasons ... Oh! Jonny, you are a painting of nature and a poem of mankind. Bathed in homesickness, I am like Chun Yan whispering on Taoshui, and I am more like Qiu Chan singing softly on Zhaga grassland. Living without rest is the true meaning of my life. In my long feelings, I harvest your intoxicating poetry, and my blessings are woven in my affectionate heart like a drizzle. I love you, Johnny's poem, hug you, Johnny's poem.