理解到母语的存留变得岌岌可危，这样的处境绝非「自然而然」的结果，台湾经历多次强势文化的宰制，多次语言政策的冲刷，母语可以说是被熄灭的，就像火不会因为电的出现而忘了怎么燃烧一样。 　　在这样的认知底下，giyu时常反刍自己与母语、母体文化关系淡薄的种种原因，而写出像秋芒这样的歌。 　　歌名取自giyu排湾族的家屋名（类似汉族的姓），意思是纷飞的芒草（tju-ljaviya），另外，将歌名的汉字取为秋芒，是因里面藏着「火亡」象征着火的凋亡，这首歌描写的是失去语言的个人故事与感慨。 　　歌词从一颗水分子的视角出发，游走在自然万物间，偶尔对火提问，陪芒草飞翔，不断在循环，且走入秋冬，但人们真正注意到它也许是因为一场雨，水过去也曾是你脚下的河川、眼里的大海，其实一直都不在远方，但只有当雨湿透了身体，才唤醒了那记忆。 　　The precarious survival of the native languages of the indigenous people in Taiwan is not a result that can be deemed "natural." Taiwan has undergone numerous instances of dominant cultural suppression and language policy, the native languages were put out like fire. it was forced instead of a natural decade, much like how fire does not forget how to burn with the emergence of electricity. 　　In light of this understanding, giyu often reflects on the various reasons for his tenuous relationship with his mother tongue and mother culture, giving rise to songs like "Tjuljaviya." 　　The song's title is derived from giyu's Paiwan tribal house name (similar to a surname in modern culture), meaning "fluttering silver grass" (tju-ljaviya). The Mandarin characters for the title (Silver grass of the fall) also symbolize the decline of fire, capturing the theme of fire's demise. This song depicts the personal story and reflections of an individual who has lost their language. 　　The lyrics tell the story from the perspective of a water molecule, cycling and wandering through the natural world, raising questions to the spark of fire, accompanying the fluttering silver grass floating in the air. Perhaps it's only when rain falls that people truly take notice – water that was once the rivers beneath your feet and the seas in your eyes, always closer than you thought. Yet, it's only when the rain soaks through your body that it awakens those memories.