Poetry and prose that eulogizes the future and looks forward to the future will do.

Prose and Poetry: Leave it to Tomorrow "People, like sparks, look forward to being sent from today to tomorrow." -Inscription lingered in the diary written yesterday, how many joys and tears I shed, picked up the golden dream, and I caressed its purity and brilliant light. Yesterday has passed away, flying to unknown places like running water, disappearing the flashing light, and the leaves began to wither. Walking on today's road, fallen leaves have been scattered all over the floor. How to pick them up? Never had a quiet, night came. Purple leaves and dark blue antique cars are so harmonious with the night. Everything was covered with a layer of gray light and motionless, as if a wisp of smoke on the roof had condensed. The ancient wall was covered with moss, which wrote down the history, but the wind blew away the leaves and could never get them back. The longing heart is a little tired, and everything that comes is in the future and tomorrow. Tomorrow's flowers will be more fragrant and colorful; Tomorrow's sky will be clearer and brighter. The day has fallen into the night, and the light has been covered. However, a new sun will rise tomorrow, leaving only tomorrow's sun? Yesterday, I ran across a winding path, and there were flowers on the roadside. When hunger and thirst are unbearable, there will be a clear spring pouring out of the ground. People are tired, and when they are depressed, something good will always come. This is the choice of will. There is always a way to go in the world, which is varied and different. Don't let your will go astray. Going forward, the night replaced the day, and the stars shone. I seemed to wander in the night sky, and the stars invited me to play. I didn't stop because of the beauty of the night and continued to run to my destination. I can sleep in the air, but where will I be tomorrow? Climbing to the top of the mountain today, the road is steeper and more dangerous. The trees are green and dripping, under the shade, hunger calls me to stop for a moment. Stop, can you still stand up? The shade turns into whistling snow, and I won't be buried or corroded by it? The light is tomorrow. The road left unfinished yesterday will continue today and tomorrow, running farther and flying higher. What is left for tomorrow is an unfinished road in the past and an ideal journey. Last spring, the grass was green and the dream world was full of vitality. The spring breeze caressed it, and the next spring, the rain moistened it and the sun shone on it. When reaching the ideal comfort, summer inserted the wings of dreams for it, and it flew, greener and more prosperous. Autumn has come, and wildfires have turned all this into ashes. It screamed and was afraid. Autumn told it that it would be born there the next spring. It calmed down and waited quietly. Waiting is hope, not spring. Isn't spring planted? Fertilizer is brought by wildfire, and it is also a heart of expectation, leaving hope for tomorrow. What is left for tomorrow is light, unfinished road, hope and everything in the future, and what is left for today is only struggle.