Feng's poems. A familiar smell.

I was lying in a bed covered with moonlight.

Distinguish the direction of dreams by the sound outside the window

There is no last drop of rain on the eaves.

All the blessings are reduced to ashes.

There is no possibility of re-ignition

Stiff hands, no cigarettes, endless sadness

The piano kept playing, and there were no mice wandering around.

Only white walls and dim lights.

Countless books with beautiful names.

Love poems have become a sin.

I don't know who to write to.

Dream, dream of a pond full of flowers, countless fish swimming.

With flags flying, the night in Daodingcheng should be beautiful.

If you cling to your heart, you can't finish drinking.

How to dump, for whom to be silent.

Sing for who?

On the rabbit's tail

There is no naked shadow.

The hip flask is hanging, and a hat is hanging on the wall.

I've heard nursery rhymes with your name on them.

Don't break the glass at night.

I can't see the death star.

I don't love you because of my glory.

It's not because of loneliness.

Love is silent.

If you lend me a gust of wind, where will it blow?

Give me an ideal city, what kind of soul?

All the aimless storms

Inadvertently covered with lichen

Desolation is not a garden of faith.

But the land you once loved.

If we never met, we wouldn't be together.

Will they be happy, like a blooming morning?

Birds fall, kapok confesses

All the unpublished "Where are you going".

They are full of sadness and happiness for the rest of their lives.

Trying to find the meaning of loneliness in winter

Only snow without footprints can explain the problem.

The snow-white world does not need singing.

20 18. 12. 19

Bedroom, good night,