Attach a poem:
Happy snow
If I were a snowflake,
Handsome in midair,
I have to know my direction clearly-
Fly, fly, fly-
This land has my direction.
Don't go to that cold valley,
Don't go to the desolate foothills,
I won't be disappointed in deserted streets-
Fly, fly, fly-
Look, I have my direction!
Flying in the air,
Identify quiet homes,
Waiting for her to visit in the garden—
Fly, fly, fly-
Ah, she smells like cinnabar plum!
I was naked at that time,
Ying Ying touched her skirt,
Close to her tender heart-
Dissolve, dissolve, dissolve-
Melt in her gentle heart
The words of the sun
Open your window,
Open your boarding gate,
Let me in, let me in,
Go to your cabin.
I brought a bunch of golden flowers,
I carry the fragrance of the forest,
There is light and heat,
I am covered with dew.
Get up, get up.
Lift your head from the pillow,
Open your eyelashes,
Let your eyes see me coming.
Let your hearts be like cabins,
Open their long-closed windows,
Let me put the bouquet, the fragrance, the lights,
Warmth and dew fill the space of your hearts.
Ah, mom.
Oh, mom,
Your pale fingertips touch my temple,
I can't help acting like a child.
Hold on to your skirt.
Oh, mom,
In order to keep your aging figure,
Although the morning light cuts dreams into smoke,
I still dare not open my eyes for a long time.
I still cherish that bright red scarf,
Afraid that cleaning will make it
Lose your unique warmth.
Oh, mom,
Isn't the running water of the years just as ruthless?
I'm afraid my memory will disappear,
How dare I open its screen easily?
I cried out to you for a thorn,
Now that I'm wearing a jingguan, I dare not.
I dare not moan,
Oh, mom,
I often look up at your photos sadly,
Even if the call can penetrate the loess,
How dare I disturb your sleep?
I dare not show the sacrifice of love like this,
Although I have written many songs.
For flowers, for the sea, for the dawn.
Oh, mom,
My sweet, soft and deep memory,
Not rapids, not waterfalls,
It's a dry well, and I can't sing in the shade of flowers and trees.
My memory
My memory is faithful to me.
More loyal than my best friend,
It lives on burning cigarettes,
It lives on a pen painted with lilies,
It lives in an old box,
It feeds on fallen raspberries,
It lives in a half-drunk bottle,
On the torn poems in the past,
On the pressed flower piece,
On the dim light,
On the calm water,
Of all things with and without souls,
It's everywhere,
Just like I am in this world.
It's timid,
It's afraid of people's noise,
But when I'm lonely,
It visited me at close range.
Its voice is very low,
But its words are long, long,
Very long, very trivial, never willing to rest;
Its writing is ancient,
Always telling the same story,
Its tone is harmonious,
Always singing the same song,
Sometimes it imitates the voice of a girl who loves focus.
Its voice is weak,
But also with tears, with a sigh.
Its visit is still uncertain,
At any time, at any place,
Often when I have gone to bed, I feel sleepy;
Or choose an early morning,
People will say it's impolite,
But we are old friends.
This is trivial and will never stop.
Unless I cry sadly,
Or fell asleep,
But I will never hate it,
Because it is loyal to me.
When the weather is clear
When the weather is clear,
It's time to take a walk on the path;
Muddy roads soaked by rain,
Must be cool and gentle;
Show new green grass,
Immediately washed away the dirt;
White chrysanthemum that is no longer timid,
Slowly raise their heads,
Try cold, try warm,
Then the petals break out of the shell;
Butterflies shake off water droplets.
Walking freely among the leaves,
The page of wisdom that decorated it.
Open and close when exposed to sunlight.
Take a walk on the path,
When the weather is fine;
Barefoot, hand in hand,
Tread across the stream in fresh mud.
Xinyang pushes away the haze,
The warm wind wrinkled the stream,
Look at the dark green moving in the mountains-
The footprint of the cloud-it is also wandering.