Reading Poetry || Sin Posca: At dusk, we lit the lights.
Reading Poetry || Xin Posca: I prefer the absurdity of writing poetry to the absurdity of not writing poetry.
His skull, dug out of the soil,
Rest in a marble grave;
Medal, sleeping on the pillow:
At present, it has a lot of space,
This skull was dug out of the soil.
They read index cards:
1. He has been/will be forgotten,
Second, go on, band, play for the funeral procession.
Third, sadly, he can't see these.
They read index cards.
At this moment, citizen, for the benefit you have gained,
Feel gratified:
People can only be born once,
But there are two graves.
At this moment, citizens, feel gratified.
The funeral ceremony is so rich:
A thousand retractable trombones,
The police in charge of crowd safety,
Bells for bones.
Funeral ceremonies are too rich.
Their eyes glanced at heaven,
In order to get a sign from a height:
Maybe it's a light,
Or pigeons with bombs.
Their eyes glanced at heaven.
Between them and the crowd,
According to this arrangement,
Lonely tree will be appointed.
Sing their silence.
Between them and the crowd.
On the contrary, the bridge has been suspended,
Above the rock canyon,
The bottom of the valley has been filled, and in order to let the tanks pass,
Echoes wait for moans.
On the contrary, the bridge has been suspended.
However, full of blood and hope,
People turn around,
They don't know, bell rope.
Become pale, like hair.
However, it is full of blood and hope.
They are both convinced.
The sudden passion brought them together.
This belief is beautiful,
But uncertainty is more beautiful.
If they have never met, they are sure,
Nothing will happen between them.
However, what are the words coming from the streets, stairs and corridors saying?
Maybe they have passed each other countless times?
I want to ask them.
You don't remember-
In the revolving door
In an instant, they saw each other's faces?
Perhaps, in the crowd, I whispered "I'm sorry"?
On the phone, I accidentally said "wrong number"?
However, I know the answer.
Yes, they have forgotten.
They were very surprised that over the years,
Opportunities always exist.
Play with them.
The opportunity is not ready yet.
Become their destiny,
It pushes them closer and further,
It stood in their way,
Then he stepped aside,
Take your snickers.
There are some signs and symptoms,
But they failed to interpret it.
Maybe three years ago,
Or just last Tuesday,
A leaf
Floating from one person's shoulder to another's shoulder.
Something was dropped and picked up.
Who knows, maybe it's a ball, disappearing into
Childhood bushes?
On the doorknob, on the doorbell,
One person's previous touch marks belong to another person.
Cover.
Their boxes are placed side by side.
Maybe one night, they had the same dream.
In the morning, it is no longer clear.
Every beginning
It's just a sequel,
incident record
It always opens in the middle.
Here lies an old-fashioned woman, like a comma.
She wrote poems, and the earth gave them to her.
Her body will rest in peace forever.
You can't join any literary factions anymore.
A simple grave? Among them, only the justice of poetry,
This short eulogy, owl and burdock. Passerby,
Take out your calculator,
In half a minute, measure the fate of Sin Posca.