The morning when the fish belly came out of the water.
I saw a pear tree with white flowers.
A pair of little red boots in the purple fog
Blue flowers are in full bloom.
On the refreshing horse-drawn path in my hometown
The car was loaded with half a load of stones.
An old driver.
Catch up with the red hunger in the winter of fifty years.
It was on a cold night.
At least 50 dreams
Stuck in a snow house by the cold.
Let the white moth fan the screen door
The snowy sky is like a brand-new sheepskin coat.
The silent vigil sat on the white river.
The traveler's lanky singer.
Lost in the midnight wind
It's morning.
Red and swollen fingers
Knock on the window like borneol
Say hello to each other
And the north is a tightly closed.
White sleeping bag
People don't give up day and night.
Dream your colorful dreams.
The north is a dead door.
The returning swallows are like winter clouds.
From the cold steps
Slowly rise
The days will pass one by one.
The mailbox is full of cold.
Scorching marks
Nobody mentioned it.