There is a poem about the little girl selling matches.

To the little match girl On a cold winter night, a little match girl passed away quietly. Like a melting snow, it disappeared silently on the ground. Ah, childhood-red-headed small matches, one after another, brought much warmth and happiness. How many winter nights, she wandered in the cold streets. If I could live in her time, I would run to her, buy all her matches, then light them all and bake her little heart with incomparable warmth. But tonight, little sister, why haven't I seen you? Are you in heaven, where there is the warmth of matches? The flame of dance catches the last trace of warmth on a cold night and puts a small heart on the palm of your hand to watch. Happy, beating orange music melts in the hands of young shadows, stretches, stretches again, and turns into water. A star falls in the sad sky, and its soul and music fly higher and higher, step by step, to a happy paradise, children. The day is short and the road is far, and the red wood is propped up. A bright river, sunshine, grazing heart, home of wormwood in the world, are mom and dad waiting for you? On my way home in the morning, at the end of a match, I thought of the little girl selling matches in He Lin. Is that what the little match girl is like? Sweet-scented osmanthus branches in the sky carry my wishes, and the ears of wheat in my hands are wrapped in silver. The little girl's grandmother said that every meteor is the fall of life, but the flying fireflies are the light of life, and the long hair flowing out of the winding stream flutters with the wind. You really shouldn't be buried in that winter. I don't know the style of youth For the little match girl, there is you. Can you hear my voice calling you? Little match girl, where are you? I stood alone at the top of the mountain, looking for your little figure. You've come so far! Every empty night, I say to my dream: Please open all my doors and windows and let my lonely companion in. Make a fire, and I am the only one sitting by the fire, waiting for you. Looking at you, I ran into my hut happily, sat opposite me, stretched out my swollen hand and leaned against the furnace wall to keep warm; Or look forward to you, come near my bed, hold those newly bought warm shoes, put them on your frozen feet excitedly, and look at me with a sweet smile. But, every morning, my home is as quiet as ever. There is only a pool of warm embers in the stove; You didn't take those shoes, but you still lay there peacefully. I know you didn't come last night. Suddenly my heart is as cold as water. Little match girl, I want to tell you: the dark ages have long passed, and there is no hunger and cold here. You can believe me, this Christmas Eve, I will definitely go to the Christmas Square to wait for you, waiting for you to come back. At that time, we held hands and sang Merry Christmas, and went through the night of flamingo trees and silver flowers to see the dawn sun! Address link:/question/question/51045590.html.