No matter in study, work or life, everyone is familiar with poetry. The content of poetry is the most concentrated reflection of social life. So the question is, what kind of poetry is classic? Below are the modern tomb-sweeping poems I compiled for you. I hope it can help you. Modern Poetry for Tomb Sweeping on Qingming Festival 1 1. "Qingming Rain" Those silk threads are densely woven with sadness. Restless souls move around, I can't see the black sleep, dusk, all live here. A batch of rain is divided into tearful eyes. Serving wine, worshiping, the bright and dying incense is solemn. Let the ancestors come in. Throw away the thunder and lightning that lacks water, don't dodge, don't extricate yourself, keep thinking in your heart 2. "Under the Loess" It is a foreign land, and there are different surnames living in it. I guess it must be the paradise world. People who go there never come back and close their eyes. Get in there. Bypassing a black funeral, let some tears and paper ashes float like the wind. People on the loess cannot stop remembering. Like me, I won't believe that my dear grandma is dead. I think she just went to live in a foreign land. Spinning threads, embroidering, and leaving the goodies to me. Watch over me from afar, bless me, pray and sing like the Virgin 3. "Until Another Tomb Sweeping Day" Sunshine or rainy season flowers or body temperature, thoughts or tears, the deep hidden smiles are delivered to the deep love of looking far away, until another kind of attachment is accompanied or cherished Standing in words or facing memories or assuming the path of a smile, longing for the past life until another cloud flies or transcends walking or running, spinning or following the smiling back, pouring out the past dreams 4. "In the Cemetery" This is the seven inches of the village. Qingming's waist releases many eye-catching words and places them in the coffin, without creating suspense, just remembering that the weeds are still fresh in their memory. The growth is higher than the tombstone. The desolation continues to penetrate deep into the roots. It is shoulder to shoulder with a few bones. The person you are visiting is motionless and does not speak. The crows are spectacular. They tear apart a festival with panicked eyes, like a Buddha who has walked for thousands of years and sat in April, waiting for countless tears to drown him. He held a few handfuls of loess, burned a fire to fold his body, and lowered his head repeatedly to look at those black ones. Butterflies floated up and then fell gently to rest, willow flutes mourned, pines and cypresses stood solemnly, and we went upstream along a full stop with numerous past events.