A modern poem about maternal love-your pale fingertips caress my temples.
I can't help acting like a child.
Hold on to your skirt
Ah, mom.
In order to keep your fading figure
Although the morning light has cut the dream into smoke.
I still dare not open my eyes for a long time.
I still cherish that bright red scarf.
Afraid that cleaning will make it
Lose your unique warmth
Ah, mom.
Isn't the running water of the years just as ruthless?
I'm afraid the memory will fade, too.
How dare I open its screen easily?
I cried to you for a thorn.
Now I'm wearing a Jing Guan, and I dare not.
I dare not moan.
Ah, mom.
I often look up at your photos sadly.
Even if the call can penetrate the loess
How dare I disturb your sleep?
I dare not show the sacrifice of love like this.
Although I have written many songs.
For flowers, for the sea, for the dawn.
Ah, mom.
My sweet, soft and deep memory.
Not a torrent, not a waterfall.
It's a dry well, and it can't sing under the shade of flowers and trees.
The second modern poem about maternal love is a bouquet of the brightest roses.
With all my dear words to my mother,
Mom said I was stupid,
Roses are flowers that symbolize love.
I don't know,
It is also a flower that the child gave to his mother.
I haven't heard my mother tell jokes about my childhood for a long time.
I regret it,
Listen, if you fall asleep.
Mom said, silly boy,
A mother can never finish what she has to say to her children.
Is to sleep in the grave,
You are also my eternal concern.
Mother five-leaf tree
I got deeper and deeper. This world?
One world.
The pentaphyllum is full of poems.
mother
I am your forced mature child.
The child is wearing a faint tsing yi.
I am a handful of dirt, and you love every aspect of it.
Tonight you sit under the roof of the country.
Gently wash one of the five leaves on your finger.
An autumn leaf
Dream cave
Mother and son are watching you by the river thousands of miles away.
Don't tell me where life takes place.
Something pierced my river.
Tears of reproduction!
There are many stars tonight.
ripple
Nocturne melodious
Mother's fingers are covered with the sanctity of youth.
The pentaphyllum is full of poems as heavy as autumn.
Her son stood on trembling hair.
Don't get excited because the flute blows out of my mouth. ...
Your life touched my dream of walking with you.
Every autumn, I shoot a horse under the tree.
Every autumn
I am under the tree.
Beat a horse
A modern poem about maternal love, the third mother, can you use the hands of dead trees?
Brush off the frost that has turned white on your sideburns? I know
The bow of the red ribbon bleached the black hair in my memory.
Long time no see. Mom, it's like nothing happened to you.
Or wriggle a loose tooth gently?
It's neither too tight nor too slow. Laugh in tears
Sing some songs that are still fresh in my childhood.
Memory is the snake of missing. Draw a word
Winding forward, my bitter ink in this life.
Mom, are you still willing to use this cracked tongue core?
Lick my arrogant poison. I am in front of you.
Always a child who doesn't grow up.
So there is a vague topic called maternal love.
It is undoubtedly the stupidest injury to a wanderer.
Mom, you are old. You used to be as famous as chrysanthemums.
The edge of the white porcelain bottle has your residual medicine fragrance.
Plain silk was very popular in the old days. manage
Brushed the heart of love, but still
I can't hide your crazy concern.
The autumn wind has started. Even in the shadow of loneliness, mom
Don't catch cold either. No matter when and where
Sunset depends on a crutch called a child.
And you, on fertile soil.
Seeds covered with vegetation are sprouting and growing.
And I, at the moment. I just want to hear your call.
My real name. In a trance, mother
I seem to be back in the yard, next to the well where I drew water as a child.