Praise Shanghai's modern poetry

The eyelids of the Oriental Pearl, a sleepless man in modern poetry, are beating outside the Shanghai 2 1 building. The stars are shining in the deep night sky, and the moon is shyly hiding in the clouds. Sparkling eyes are turning, and charming electric waves float gently for a long time. Looking down at the reflection of the century-old story of Huangpu River, telling his own feelings and slipping away from his eyes without bringing his thoughts to his lover. The chaotic thoughts around the city pass through the neon squares where they imagine and date. Like during the day, the Bund, surrounded by lovers from all directions, is too excited to sleep. Waibaidu Bridge is covered with the gown of Suzhou River's joys and sorrows, fading away the impetuousness of the city and having a quiet dialogue with Huangpu River. The dinner of seven meats and eight vegetarian dishes, fighting with gastric juice, made the bile judge fall into the gentle trap of the small intestine, slowly lingering the accumulation of fat surplus value, and turned into a bloated posture, which could not stop the complex of urban popular explosion. The wind outside the window is looking for its partner among the twinkling stars. The feeling of shaking the glass through the gap makes the heat wave dance with a little * * * thought. My heart glides through sleepless Shanghai with the night. 1. On the neon night on the Huangpu River, the dream is disturbing the thoughts on the pillow, watching the ripples and pushing open the window on the river. The string of neon eyes flashed across the gorgeous river in my mind. I have been lying in a long queue for thousands of years, looking forward to Shanghai's tomorrow-the home of the Expo and an international metropolis. The river melted the smoke and turned it into rows of buildings. The forehead of the Oriental Pearl, the waistline of Jin Mao and the chest of the International Conference Center have turned the colorful mood into a passionate river and reclaimed people's thoughts of looking forward. I pillow the neon on the Huangpu River, remembering: Yesterday, you sucked your mother's milk and grew up slowly; Today, you have gathered the strength of the whole world; Tomorrow, you will double today's glorious time, which is like a ghost. I will catch fish and shrimp like a river, never let go of time, fill all the gaps like a sandstorm, and never fail. Time is as vicious and ruthless as a tornado, taking away everything and my confidence. I will never give up. Like my father, I will open my arms to appease the wandering migratory birds and let the warriors recharge their batteries in the harbor and never give up. Just like a strict mother, she always tells me to cherish time, create time, keep pace with the times and never waste time. Winter is coming again, the world is covered with white snow, and the earth is infinitely extended and isolated. I stood in the snow, and the snow fell in my heart. Time is like water. Only I know that its flowing body is transparent and how the immortal wind yearns for it. Should you go up or down to different dreams or cold or hot spaces? Is it like the phoenix nirvana will be reborn in the disaster, but I know that time will not stand still, but endless loneliness, ignorant and humble laughter and conspiratorial words in the dark night are enough to turn the original fiery heart into an arc of ice and desire, and fog will rise on the cold face. Perhaps only burning can make the eyes enter a complete purification process as soon as possible, and then become discerning.