The modern poems of spring are as follows:
1. "Spring" - Modern - Na Ye.
I was fanned further by the little wings of the bee. I like its singing. There is a prayer hidden in the praise. The dewdrops shook a little, and the first butterfly flew out. It liked myself for the peach blossom and flew through the winter. The bird stood on the light spot, its body was still wet in its dried feathers. I stared at it all winter. The yellow leaf was separated from the harmony of spring. It was low and blessing upward.
2. "Spring" - Modern - South Korea is strong.
In spring, my regrets are buried all the way, like small scars on the stamens, which are turned over to new soil and healed with youth, like my moment of surprise: allowing me to get out of my illness and suspend my life. In the twilight, under the shade of flowers where I sleep with hatred, my young conscience is discovered, which deeply touches the eyes of the waker. The wonderful world phenomenon has faded away its thick glaze, which is short-lived, but also as long-lasting as rotten wood. Addicted, I held a piece of waste paper and mourned on the long distance. In spring, the rain blew on the low roof tiles and wild vegetables, like wandering hands.
Covering the charming Chinese medicine on my chest, those forgetful maids whisper in their dreams. In spring, my late-night sleeves are covered with dew, and the maids slow down their footsteps in their dreams. , penetrated through the devastated windows, falling and staying like crystal dust on the platform, only disturbing me who was aimless.
3. "Spring" - Shi Maosheng.
I have almost said it, but it is still coming, a small bud, oh, will spring hold you steady? I have almost said it, but it still comes. Just passing by, just like my dazed thoughts, I can't break into spring for no reason. The barbaric poems are too bad, shocking the soul, and at the same time, the broken-armed god on the balcony is continuously drawn out as the light continues, and the gathering dark clouds and The storm occasionally appears majestic, and then changes beyond recognition like a fool. I have almost written down the names of these places.
"Hills", "wilderness" and "mines", but these cannot be repeated again, you see, they have passed by spring, there are almost no more precise words, and they disappear faster than this, I don't know any more than you do about the empty furnishings of spring.