Spring For the sake of spring, we do not hesitate to meet the eyes of the east wind and the whip of the willows. In spring, we melt the tears in the lyric wounds. In spring, we tried to commit suicide because we were uglier than peonies. For the sake of spring, before we take off our coats, we are infected by stamens, dressed as butterflies and bees, brewing endless acne. For spring, we have leaked the wind of love and are preparing to bluff. We just hung our voices on the treetops and sang sparrows regardless of the indiscriminate nature of the East. For the happiness of spring, we auction other happiness at a reduced price, and we will not refund it. For the sake of spring, we cut off summer and forbade it to play. For the sake of spring, we also expel unqualified spring and let them stay with winter. This is all for spring, this sensational and beautifully dressed spring!
Oh, spring, we didn't wait until you were old and saw the summer, only to know that the hypocritical and naked summer of spring is coming on our shoulders with uncultured legs step by step. It was still summer, and we were so tired that we were sweating. When we tasted the summer overnight, we were still greedy. As soon as summer came out, we drank a pot of hot summer in front of us, with too much gold in our urine, but the blood flowed away in vain until we died. It is nothing more than a shameless summer, so we are hotter than summer, from malaria to syphilis to death, leaving only a charred body for sale in another summer, touching summer with the remaining soul, enduring the summer of summer, unknown age, unknown place of origin, raping spring on a certain day in May, and immediately rushing to autumn for execution. Then, autumn harvested our heads and spent the crisp autumn days at the speed of a bumper year. Our love is half cold and depressed with the out-of-control organs. It's just that the inner age is getting older and older. Decorate autumn maple leaves with withered wounds. We recognized our fugitive in autumn before a leaf fell. Even if our clothes are disguised as crickets, we must show the clues we know. We can't stand the loneliness at night. Once autumn is recited, we are lofty again, tearing our waists thin under chrysanthemums, thinking that the moment of falling wood is coming, and we can't help shivering when walking in landscape paintings. This is the quietest moment, we are suffocated by the sunset, but the sunset in late autumn is not enough to fill our stomachs in summer. Sunset, your eternal ghost follows us, while settling accounts after the autumn, while winking at us.
In winter, we pick the fallen leaves and freeze them into snowmen. We put on down and flew over the wasteland of thought, looking at the horizon, but we couldn't see the spring water in the future. Warm ducks can never swim out of the rhyme of Song poetry. In winter fairy tales, tomorrow's swan will be postponed indefinitely. The ugly duckling turned the page and fell asleep. I dreamed that Santa Claus was one year older than last year, and we were not as young as spring. There is a virtual swan playing the British pipe behind the dead line. A real winter will cough a lot, so we wrap it in a quilt, hang it on the fireplace, and tie the neck of winter with pine branches to prevent it from being blown by the north wind. This winter can nourish our peace of mind. We beat our hibernation with icicles until stiff words attract bear bile. Another winter roared outside the window, listening to the proletariat. Another winter wandering in the moonlight of the soul, selling a homeless poem before selling the last match.
Dynasty: modern author: Yang