Modern Poetry] Forget spring, the wind is singing softly in a dream in the empty courtyard on a spring night. Some people have gone far, and some people have returned to their hometown. If there is moonlight on my pillow, I won't sleep tonight, because I still have her beautiful image dancing in my heart. Whenever I look up at the blue sky and white clouds, my black eyes drift to the past. Every time I hug the night star, I want to shed a few tears in the lamp, but I am afraid that the tears will reflect yesterday's heartbreak and leave the warm and soft bed, but I don't know who spring is waiting for. You think under the bright window. Spring love is thinking about autumn frost and all the flowers. I have been crying and laughing secretly on the way to wake up from my dream. I slowly forgot my heart to the candlelight forgotten by spring or lonely hope. First, the small forest in the city turned green, and the humble life of ants and flying insects in my small forest came under the soil with the spring. I heard the sound of earthworms crawling and knocked down the closed door of the soil with their soft heads. On the grass in the grove, I saw a group of goats waving their long beards and bleating, which shocked my youth and soul. A black goat came to me with tears of happiness on her face. Second, push open the door of spring and hear birds singing in the city. A few primrose birds were afraid to go into town, but they cheered outside the school. They are as simple as farmers in rural areas, which makes me feel close. They are my friends. It seems that they are relatives I met by chance. They are looking for unknown bugs and making friendly sounds to their peers outside school. I fell in love with the sound of birds. In the contention of birds, I pushed open the door of spring. This spring, this spring, my heart is in a mess. Sometimes I think of some tombstones, and sometimes I think of my childhood. This spring, my heart is in a mess. My spring poems were written in spring. My poems are leaves and crowns in spring. What else can I do this spring? Who else can I embrace spring and time with? The rain passed through my chest. A voice dripped from a high place, like a Rapunzel shawl, and a black waterfall held time tightly on me. Therefore, being a dizzy elf in the endless rain curtain can't tell who is the real irresistible desire. Raindrops are flying in the air and slowly floating in the air. The accumulated strength seeped into my broad chest quietly from the simple clouds, so the waves in my chest stirred ripples and beat on the emotional shore reef. Waves of breath and drops of rain nourish each other, and drops of rain go deep into my heart without cover. Mix with my thoughts, then wash everything through the narrow space in my heart, and a ray of sunshine flies into my sunny sky through time. On February 23, 2004, Looking at a Snow in Spring boarded the train bound for spring with the sharp sword of the season, ruthlessly scraped off the restless buds, let the little hand that had been chapped for a winter stretch out, stepped on a snow in spring and held high the banner of hunting and chasing. The dialogue between spring and snow is precious. Snowflakes flow freely in six directions, conveying wet information. In fact, spring has nothing to do with a snow, but a sudden cold in late spring. Grab everyone's love. Looking up, the contact between heaven and earth is intense and pure along the slope of the season. The last snow and trees outside the window are waiting for February 3, 2004. Looking at the horizon, the branches droop and sigh, and the fog drips into the yearning for spring. A bud quietly arching the frozen soil knocks on the door of the earth. Free-walking sparrows disappear into the cracked trunk of ice and enjoy love. Light kites in the suburbs, sailing all the way to the territory of spring. The road is still muddy, and occasionally pedestrians turn up their collars to shut out the cold, while the sun shines in the door of spring. On February 5, 2004, on the top of a hill in the suburbs, I didn't meet my son who was flying a kite. I am so excited that a floating leaf is flying in the distance. You came to my wife, and I lay down and kissed the wet Achnatherum splendens. I was very upset all afternoon. I really want to take out my son's homework in his schoolbag and help him sweep it.
An old buffalo chewed the lawn covered with wild flowers between buildings, and then Cleisthenes barked like a shepherd boy. Cattle raised their hooves and sprayed beads to wake up Chunhe's ears. Next to it are seedlings that grow wildly in spring and leaves on the ridge of the field. Imagine that this old buffalo chewed and mumbled on this land not long ago, pushing the pace of the season. An empty philosopher is holding hands and making various gestures, warming the earth through the cold eyes of the season. Turn out the colors one by one, throw the cool classical figure heavily into the mud waves, and urge the plowman and the old farmer to carry the 2004-03-09 Who Hunted the Feathers of Spring. After experiencing abundant vitality, the last feather will be hidden in the twilight of spring. Under the wings of the day, a feather will serenade safely and gracefully in the breeze, gently licking the sails sailing in the sea of the four seasons. After winning love, it fell out of favor under the eaves of love. I betrayed my hope. Once romantic passion, in the space of steaming clouds in spring, quietly swam a drop of clear tears. Vilen saw that the dying light was bathed in the tempering of clouds. The fiery journey of driving away beautiful feathers in the sea and sky is insurmountable, and then I raised my pious prayer flags and left with wordless promises. Who hunted the spring feather but couldn't find soaring? The sky gathers feathers on the branches of emotion. I think in a spring afternoon, there may be many things that will be boring to lie on the windowsill and look at the distant sky. The crowded downstairs is crowded with pedestrians in a hurry. They all looked serious and witnessed the individual actions of others. On one side is clear Wan Li, and a lyrical pigeon feather is gracefully holding a pigeon whistle and gliding unscrupulously in kites and breezes. Suddenly, a vigorous shadow moves under the canopy, only choosing irregular strokes and traces of thinking to stand pigeons, reaching the distant bridge with their open feathers, waiting for a beam of sunshine, preferably a long-lost sunshine, to hug them heartily.
The car stomped wearily from the noise to the target. The boiling vilen was silent. In the spring when rape blossoms are in full bloom, a group of bees come to the depths of the season as masters and lie in the stamens wisely. From the cracks in the petals, they witnessed the dancing and stretching of the wind, breathed out the depression in their chests, and stopped their comfort and ease on the road outside the window. A red apricot playfully came out through the wall along the drawn curtain, and the thick aroma mixed with brewed alcohol smoked a car full of people.