Through the mossy window pavilion,
Reflected in the mirror, the still pale face that has lost some mercury and has yellowed.
Is the same sunset,
The lithe figure in the depths of my memory,
Full of ideas,
Return the money,
The waiting face is like a flower in an instant.
Still that touch,
It's just sad
There is a sleeper sitting on the other side of the short stone bridge.
Silence.
Only the sound of running water at the bottom of the bridge has never been forgotten.
Humming young love gently.
The ancient quadrangular well is still clear,
Mottled. The long blue walls are no longer beautiful,
The fleeting years always stir people's hearts,
Evergreen locust tree,
Witness the life and death of love …
There is a modern poem about love, 2 Waiting.
Cut an inch from the overlooking windowsill.
Starlight blocks the chill of spring.
Let bygones be bygones, the way of spring breeze.
From the night light on the third day of New Year's Eve
Take part in a poem
Allow dreams to come back to life, allow
A star fell into its heart and was baked.
The chill brought by years of silence
Peach blossom powder, plum blossom.
Replace the background of the case and go far.
Dreams are deep and shallow, and flowers bloom early and late.
The scenery on the road is raining in Mao Mao.
Waiting for the virtual space, waiting for the meniscus.
Shake down the poetic notes
Who holds hands and dances to the song?
Love, in the depths of poetry
Write down this topic
Feel uneasy and play deeply.
If I can't see the sky, what can I believe?
No root words, heavy back, light back.
Always avoid and dare not touch.
Meridian of poetry, afraid of language construction
Next to the soil nest, the echo of grass roots jointing
Bone erosion, hollowing out, one meter black.
Only the empty shell soul is constantly haggard and cut.
Snuff hands cut the veil that is constantly covered by dawn.
Fortunately, there was wine, so I raised my glass and drank it off.
The cold spring in February is drunk between the eyelashes.
Thoughts that don't drip, drown your sorrows in wine.
Shout out the oath of eternal love
I am not a poet.
Sleeping in the depths of poetry
Waiting for your redemption
It's raining.
Endless rain
Follow the short sky
All hands and feet, clean up the scene for the festival.
Two wheels are turning.
Crush a white curtain
Click, red light
temporary amnesia
Unknown time and place association
Defamiliarization, raindrops
The only thing that exists is the eyes.
Tick tock, tick tock
A drop of coolness
Finally remembered.
Wash a day on Tuesday.
The sitcom began.
Play in the back