This is the vortex solidified on Yan Shao pottery,
This is an inscription rushing in the bronze of Xi Zhou.
This is a group of guardians—
By the heart, and by the light,
The blood of the Yellow River,
To smooth the fingertips of history.
My station is at the front desk.
the creases of the atlas,
It is a tributary of the Yellow River winding in its palm,
The light of the guide screen,
Talk to the millenium.
My fingertips flicked on the keyboard,
Moving the old man's wheelchair to accessibility,
Lead the curiosity of a teenager to the AR experience area,
Find the owner of a lost panda backpack—
He was sleeping on the lost ground.
I stand at this little station,
Punch open the doorbolt of history with a smile.
My place is by the security door.
The humming of metal detectors,
It's my background every day,
Gray shadow on the X-ray screen,
It's the "little secret" in the backpack that is manifesting.
Goji berries in thermos cup, lens cover for camera,
And the jingling key chain-
My eyes are like a sieve:
loose battery? please take it out!
Unextinguished e-cigarettes? outside the door etc!
Lighter? Register on the left!
The light of the scanner,
It is a green signal light.
The most common gate,
Keep out the trivialities that should not be in,
Let people with curiosity and stories,
Walk safely behind the doors of history.
My place is at the booth.
The sling hangs above the Yang Shaotao urn,
Dust cloth light caressing merchant week bronze ding.
The track of the cleaners,
Walk along the stars of tomorrow:
Remove a dust from the cabinet,
Like a star guarding history;
Adjust the spotlight once angle,
Let the Millennium Glaze shine first.
My place is in the children's workshop.
earth rubbed in the palm of a child,
Half-slope fish print swam at fingertips.
Among the laughs of the Commissioner of Education:
"Look! you pinched the Qin surrogate ship,
They are driving to the sun!”
The seed of enlightenment,
tucked away in a pigment disc of digital oil paintings,
into the Yellow River.
My station is in front of the podium.
To make the thick annals into stories,
Let the silent artefacts speak.
The speaker's microphone,
It's a sonic bridge connecting ancient times -
Fish on a half-poo pottery swims into the bottom of the child's eye,
The battle rages on young men's chest.
When the “as it was” sounded,
Five thousand years of blood again!
My office is in control room.
glimmers on the screen,
It is the showroom that never sunsets,
Whenever the fingertips tap,
It can change the dawn.
Alarm silence is pillowside white noise,
Data flows like the Yellow River rushing beneath its feet.
I keep the universe in this space—
Wearing seatbelts for artifacts with fiber optics,
Let the ravings of history sleep in constant temperature,
Until the next dawn lights up.
