-Dedicated to Juanjuan.
Zhang Zao
One day your noisy voice
A virtual circle rose along the long telephone line.
I'm here and I think you're over there. Where are you?
In the soft sunshine, you are wearing thin clothes in pink.
Thick hair hangs freely in the wind outside the window.
How uneasy your eyes are when the distant breath comes.
As uneasy as a seed, dear.
I was surprised to see you walking in that strange direction.
Melting clouds cling to you.
I want to tell you that everything has changed since then.
Without the old man and the kite, the plane tree left coldly.
The road has completely changed. I smoked one cigarette after another-
Hold you tight, and I look at the approaching clouds in the distance in a hurry.
You said this was the first and last day.
Everything is budding. Why do you ask me?
You said there were thousands of new leaves floating in the air.
You keep shaking me, shaking me, you have to.
Stretch your body and let me imagine the movements of birds.
You want me to sprout, you want me to be close, close.
Stick it on my face with your slightly swollen white soap.
Four Summer Songs of Four Seasons
-Dedicated to Juanjuan.
Zhang Zao
How happy you should be when the wind in early summer begins to be independent.
Sometimes I am really afraid that you will become a pure smile and get farther and farther away from me.
You have to prove to me that you are just an airplane.
I will cross you to the lake, and when you lie down, the moon will be.
From your reaction to me, you can see that I am as calm as a cloud.
I forbid you to move. Don't tremble, let your lips form a magnificent edge.
How nice! I really like your transparency, even though you are far away from me.
You measure me, you measure me, you ask me to listen to the wind together.
The wind talks a lot and is full of summer.
The road sign also said a lot of things, mainly that we grew up as soon as we walked around.
I don't want the darkness to wake you up, although your eyes are more melancholy than the night.
I don't know why you are crying, but you are covered with white snow, dear.
I want you to stay still and stay away from me in one direction.
Even if time goes by and fills the dead corner of the season.
Let's wait. You sit down like a daffodil and put it on my plane.
You can't walk. You are a plane. There will be thorns on the road.
The story of late autumn
Zhang Zao
Go to play in late autumn for a few days.
I'll get close to her shocking back
She said Jiangnan is like a tree.
The scenery in front of us began to blossom and bear fruit.
Start delivery; Ah, the season she said.
As if facing someone upstream.
Bloom crossed the sworn arch bridge.
Drop a leaf
I knew it was the year of Jiazi.
The old man around me
Ups and downs like chrysanthemums
The lover's place eats into other places.
She said Jiangnan is like her hairstyle.
Without a rainy day, the paper became a milk swallow.
And I gradually climbed the ladder of sunshine.
There are railings in the team and the map is in front of me.
Begin to drift and converge
The flowers I cleaned with my fingers.
Say your name over and over again, as if
There are many small stone bridges in Jiangnan.
I'll pass by one day, just like
Through her silent ears
Her cuffs hide a beautiful climate.
And the whole place.
There will be an expression on your face.
Maybe we won't bother the old man.
They rose like chrysanthemums and fell to the ground again.
Clear and fragrant
The first snowflake on the south bank
Zhang Zao
I dreamed in this room that it snowed for the first time on the south bank.
Loneliness is like milk.
White fingers hang down like a shot bird.
You groaned and climbed out of a rice field.
The bordeaux horse galloped on the runway.
Unexpected brilliance
Since then, still life has been stained with pathological squares.
Xiao Fangli, your first dance.
The arm is the wrong current.
A pillar and a plum blossom
Ten-mile pavilion, five-mile pavilion.
The tracks change tracks.
Jujube horses are sweating profusely.
Touched as a picture
One evening, a snowflake melts.
A new leaf dies one by one.
The first snowflake on the south bank
The first memory of the future