You can't present a bunch of flowers to your graveyard.
But I am destined to spend my whole life reading your poems.
Through thousands of miles of ice and snow
The beginning of the festival and the excitement of my soul.
I can finally write at will.
But you can't live as you please.
This is our tragedy.
Your mouth is more silent, that is
You can't tell the secret of fate.
Endure, endure, deepen the notch in the pen.
Give up in order to get it.
In order to live, you ask yourself to die completely.
This is you. You found me from one disaster after another.
Testing me suddenly made my life miserable.
From snow to snow, I was hit by mud in Beijing.
Reading your poems on the bus, I am in my heart.
Shout out those noble names
Those exiles, sacrifices, witnesses, those
The souls meet in the tremor of mass.
Those flashes of death, and mine
Your own land! Tears in the eyes of northern livestock
Maple leaves burning in the wind
How can I get enough of the darkness and hunger in people's stomachs?
Put these aside and talk about myself.
Just like you, you have to endure more violent snowstorms.
In order to save your Russia, your
Larissa, so beautiful, it won't hurt any more.
Your `, incredible miracle.
With the cold of snow, it is in front of us!
Autumn in Levitan by candlelight.
Death, praise and sin in Pushkin's poetic rhyme
Spring has come, and the vast land is bare and dark.
Poet, turn your soul to all this.
This is bitterness, the highest way to rise from the bottom of my heart.
This is not pain, this is what you finally bear.
Still unstoppable, come to us.
Discover us: it requires symmetry.
Or a requiem that echoes more than the echo.
How can we get to your grave?
This is a shame! It's winter in December in Beijing.
This is the sadness, exploration and questioning in your eyes.
Like a bell, oppressing my soul.
This is pain, happiness, say it.
I need to fill my life with ice and snow.