Poetry about trees Modern poetry

Dude, I'm here. The night is as cool as the tide in the evening, and the first-class curved stone steps invade the heart. You sit in a dark room on the threshold, crouching behind you with your mouth open. Sophora japonica shook off its fallen leaves like a bird, and small gold coins floated on the moonlight waves. You belong to the sun, to the grassland, to the bank, and to the eyes of the black gem. You belong to a snowstorm, a road, a torch, a supporting hand, you are a soldier, and your life is like a bell, shaking shadows from people's hearts. The wind is leaving them at a strange pace. I hate to believe that you are still sad, but, brother, I am here. I came from my mind. Bookshelves, benches, and apple cores twinkle warmly in your memory, leaving smiles and lights, and leaving along the squares of the manuscript paper at a brisk pace. As long as the wind changes the direction of my thoughts at night, as long as your horn suddenly becomes silent and asks for harmony, I will come back and say brother calmly on your shoulder. I am "thinking" here, a colorful wall chart without lines, a pure but unsolvable algebra, a dulcimer, and a pair of paddle buds that can't reach the other shore, generally silently waiting for the sunset that is noticed in the distance. Maybe there is an ocean hidden but it flows out, just two tears. In the distance of the soul, in the depths of the soul, "running to the moon" is as fleeting as your dream, and you are desperate. Throw yourself into the untouchable abyss of life. Even if the moon is willing to accept your betrayal, there will still be loneliness to accompany you for thousands of years. Why can't lofty mountains carry heavy shackles on their shoulders? Did you leave lightly? A beautiful soft voice, after thousands of performances, will live forever. The fog of the brig wet my wings, but the wind didn't allow me to hesitate to go ashore again. My beloved coast just said goodbye to you yesterday, today you are here again, and tomorrow we will meet at another latitude. It's a storm. One lamp connects us together. It's a storm. Another lamp lets us divide things again. We are not afraid of the ends of the earth. You are in my journey and I am in your sight. "Water Fairy" is an ancient refrain in Xiaoyao De folk songs, which banished countless flaming hearts and let them drift by themselves. The son of Hongyi, who said that women are made of clear water, went to realize the monk's dream for him. There is a kind of flower in the south of the Red Chamber, which is wholesale and retail to borrow a bowl of water from a distant window to answer Bi Ye Qin Yu. The golden lamp and the silver lamp support the poor and fragrant soul, and the pulse is difficult to carve. When people are dry, they water themselves with tears. Without tears, the world would be desolate and dry. Women's love covers four fifths of the earth. Luoshen is water, and ChristianRandPhillips is water. Nowadays, girls deny that their roots have been soaked in legend, but women who look at water as a mirror are getting softer and softer, and men are getting wet little by little. Many girls in southern Fujian call daffodils when eating. The whole street should forget me. The blue flame jumped between the flowing lead ice. A small book slipped from my hand and didn't touch the ground. I finished a beautiful elopement. Can I say it's you? Just you? Meet unexpectedly tomorrow? The index of the diary for many years, a silent signature or a birthday present preserved by memory spread from the fence of youth. I still remember that it was hundreds of years ago. It has been a soul for hundreds of years. Why is molting always awakened by these three words? Forget me, forget me, forget me, who have I forgotten? Nvshen Peak, her hand suddenly drew back and covered her eyes tightly with all kinds of flower handkerchiefs waving at you. When people dispersed, who was still standing at the stern, like a turbulent cloud, Jiang Tao's beautiful dream left a beautiful sadness in the world, which was handed down from generation to generation. Can the heart really turn into stone? I missed countless moonlight in order to see the sky. The rapids along Jiangfeng Golden Chrysanthemum and Ligustrum lucidum are inciting new betrayal. It is better to cry on your lover's shoulder all night than to be exposed on the cliff for a thousand years. Oh, mother, your pale fingertips care about my temple. I can't help but hold on to your skirt as I did when I was a child. Mother, in order to keep your drifting figure, although the morning light has cut the dream into wisps of smoke, I still dare not open my eyes for a long time. I still cherish that bright red scarf, for fear that washing it will make it lose your unique warmth. Isn't mom's running water the same in those years, heartless and afraid of fading her memory? How dare I open its screen easily? I cried to you for a thorn. Now I'm wearing a watch and dare not say anything. Mom, I often look up at your photos sadly. Even if I call for penetrating the loess, how dare I disturb your sleep? I dare not show the sacrifice of love in this way. Although I wrote many songs for flowers, the sea and the dawn, my sweet and soft memory of my mother is not a torrent or a waterfall, but a dry well that can't be sung among the flowers and trees. The osmanthus tree in my hometown is the place where I fell happily in my dream. Lock the corner of the balcony? Let me stop and watch? A long time? Whispering softly, hidden in my heart with flowers? By being young? Rely on frivolity? How many people lead cattle and drive sheep? Greedy, too good a promise? In the blink of an eye In the high voice of a group of people? The osmanthus tree collapsed? No longer out of reach? Who is still thinking at night? When I was young, the expectation of the osmanthus tree in the deep courtyard came as scheduled in August every year. I just want to ask? In whose dream? Will the happiness of a tree be shaken off? How can you meet me at my most beautiful moment? For this reason, I have been chanting in front of the Buddha for 500 years. Let's form a dusty Buddha, so I become a tree, growing in the sun along the only way you have to go. It was the hope of my previous life. When you approach, please listen carefully to the trembling sound of leaves. When you finally walk past my friends who are behind you, they are not petals. That's my withered heart. Poplar is on the plateau. On the way through the sandstorm? Standing on the top of the explosive? That's why men on the plateau. Straighten your back? Your extended roots sow green trees? The charming story of decorating the plateau with you never stops? Ideal and happiness never give up? Just when you look far away? People are watching you, too? Maybe there is no praise, maybe there is no praise. But people have a saying in their hearts? Not because Mao Dun wrote about you, you should insist on soil and water conservation as you do. In China children's mind, actually? Every descendant of the dragon is trying to make progress? 1. Are you in the north and south of the river? North and south, it's above you? The sky below you is very high? The land is vast and beautiful, and you will shoulder the powerful and high-pitched Shaanxi opera on the plateau? Big waist drum in yellow mud? In your lush leaves? Has a long history, let the world? Remember the high loess slope on the plateau? At the same time, I also think of the "tree of tears" of the Chinese nation? I am a tree growing in the wilderness, and sometimes fate always plays a joke on me. How free I am in the deep mountains of the country! Bright sunshine and fresh air always make me energetic. I am young and energetic, and no one has set a theme for me. I am free to express my thoughts. Suddenly one day I was forced to leave my land, and I barely got a city hukou, national food, although it was history. The glory imposed on me made me black and blue, as if my hands and feet had been sawed off. I only have one box left, but I'm not dead. My roots deep into the soil were completely cut off, and I could no longer suck the nectar of Mother Earth, losing the sky and soil in my hometown. I am bound by some despicable ideas, and of course, countless of my compatriots have the same sad fate. Here we are. In fact, the city stands guard for the dirty soul and wants to cry without tears. We drag out an ignoble existence and pretend to be happy. We will always miss my hometown. Now there are only people who are full of worries and predatory thoughts. They not only plundered ideas, but also plundered rural scenery crazily. When freedom becomes a kind of imprisonment, we can only line up and obey the rules. I am a tree that longs for freedom. Trees always miss their hometown of king of thailand. The trees outside the window are tall and gorgeous buttonwood trees waiting outside the window, and the rich crown is crowded with all the sights. The rain washed away the new top branches, the color was particularly green and delicate, and the veins of the new leaves were slender and transparent, like the ink collected by a meticulous painter. The three-foot square window is separated by two worlds. With the sunshine smile, we don't have to wait for the rainbow to appear after the rain clears. As long as we are willing, spring flowers can always bloom in our hearts (English "tree")-Julius kilmer I hope we will never see a poem as lovely as a tree. A tree, its thirsty mouth sucks the dew of the earth. A tree, he looked at the sky all day, holding the arm of the leaf, praying to be speechless. In summer, a tree will have a robin's nest in its hair. On a tree, the snow is lying on his chest, and he and the rain are close partners. Poetry is sung by fools of our generation, and trees can only be given by God.