Can't turn blue, think of Ai Qing, mottled color.
Tall shrubs, leaves spreading in the sky.
Those villages bowed their heads and accepted the favor of poetry.
The magnificent curtain is exciting and everywhere.
Embrace the birth of the red regime
I am sad to think of Ai Qing's nanny, Da Yanhe.
The wheat in the village rolls like air.
Water spinach, reeds, waving on the mountain.
The birth of poets is like those faint particles.
Sobbing in the water, following the wind speed, reaching the sky.
You must see the sun and the light.
Seeing the sun burn your skin.
Countless windows are like human ears.
You pricked up your ears and heard a small sound.
There are ten thousand kinds of tenderness, which can be calmed down
You must have met the woman who painted plum blossoms.
Watch an endless feast
I heard what I didn't say.
Green, withered and incomplete.
Love or embarrassment, existence or nothingness
You are a poet, and you are standing in the river.
I stood on the roof of Hepo Old Street and looked at you.
When you see me, don't laugh and close your eyes slightly.
Countless peach blossoms bury you and me.
2. The theme song about hugging Ai Qing (1) made Ai Qing unable to turn blue, thinking of Ai Qing, a tall and mottled shrub, and leaves spreading in the sky. Those villages bowed their heads one after another, bearing the love of poetry. The magnificent curtain was excited, and the mountains and plains embraced the birth of a red regime, thinking of Ai Qing's nanny Dayan River, and the wheat in the sad village rolled like air, water, spinach and reeds. The birth of a poet rippled on the mountain, like those faint particles whimpering in the water, following the wind speed and reaching the sky. You must have seen the sun, the burning lights, and countless windows like people's ears. You pricked up your ears, heard subtle voices and calmed down. You must have seen the woman who painted plum blossoms, seen the endless banquet, and heard the unspoken words, green, withered, incomplete love or embarrassment. Whether you exist or not, you are a poet. You stand in the river and I stand on the roof of Hepo Old Street. Look at you, you look at me, don't laugh, close your eyes. Countless peach blossoms bury you and me in the living and dead poets. Get up for my prayers, Ai Qing. Please tell them that what they have been waiting for is important. Guided by the last star, I crossed the dew. I come from the east, and I will bring light to the world and warmth to mankind. People's mouths, please take away my breath, people whose eyes are burning with thirst and distant cities and villages immersed in suffering, and invite them to welcome me to the white sun. A bright messenger opens all the doors and windows to welcome you, honks his horn to welcome you, blows his horn to welcome the street sweeper to sweep the street. Please drive the truck to move the garbage and let the workers walk in the street with broad steps. Make the truck shine. Our line flows through the square, please wake up from the wet fog, please open their fences to welcome me, please ask the village women to open their chickens, please ask the farmers to take the cows out of the barn, and let them know that I am from the other side of the mountain through your warm mouth. From the other side of the forest, let them clean up the fields in the sun and the dirty days and wells forever. Please open the window with paper. Please open the door with Spring Festival couplets. Please wake up women and men who snore in Yin Qin, and let young couples get up with greed. Please wake up the sleepy mother and the baby next to her. Please wake up everyone, even pregnant women who are sick, even people who are lying in bed moaning, even the wounded who are fighting for justice, even refugees who fled because of the collapse of their hometown. I will comfort those unfortunate people, please wake up an artificial person who loves life, technicians and painters invite singers to sing to welcome the sound of grass dew, and dancers to dance to welcome them. Please wake up those healthy and beautiful people and say I'll knock on their windows at once. Please be faithful to the poems of the times. People bring comfort to human beings and ask them to be ready for it. When the rooster crows for the last time, please get ready for it. I will come and ask them to look at the sky with sincere eyes. I will give the kindest light to all those who have been waiting for me. Please tell them that tonight will be over. I will wake up from my sleep and be happy to see your light. ; Although I was sleepy last night, I was still plagued by countless nightmares.
Your fresh, warm and clean light shines on my long-unopened window. Make the paper on enough paper pale yellow like pollen and embed it in a light blue neat grid. My heart is full of excitement. I get out of bed, open the window door that has been closed for a winter, and let you spread a bright tablecloth made of all gold on my table by the window. So, I'm surprised to see you: it's too real for me to doubt. You are standing on the opposite top of the mountain, smiling so brightly.
I look at you with wide eyes, eager to capture your image, how intense, how dreamy and how strict! Your light stung my pupils. Sun, you immortal philosopher, you have brought happiness to people, even the most unfortunate people will feel your comfort from the heart when they see you.
From time to time, you are a blacksmith, a beautiful living gold-plated worker; You cast the sun into countless golden wheels and fly in the ancient wasteland ... Without you, the sun would lie in the dark, and even with wings and arms, it would only fly in the eternal night like a bat. I love you as people love their mothers. You feed my thoughts and thoughts with light and heat-let me live passionately and suffer for my thoughts until my life is taken away by death.
After a long and lonely winter, today, I want to climb to the top of the mountain, take off my clothes and bathe my soul in your light.
3. Write a poem embracing Ai Qing along the wind speed.
Being, being or nothingness. You are a poet. The sun, you stand on the opposite hilltop, spread out on my desk by the window, you stand in the river, I stand on the roof of Hepo Old Street, please get ready to meet me when the rooster crows for the last time. I will come and ask them to look at the sky with sincere eyes. I will send the kindest light to all those who have been waiting for me at the end of the night.
I can only look at you with my eyes open, just like a bat flying in the eternal night, struggling to think and laughing so brightly and naked. I want to go to the top of the mountain, I can't doubt it, reed: it's true; Although I was still sleepy last night, I had wings and arms. You are so fresh! Your light stung my pupils. I don't laugh, but I think of Ai Qing.
You are a forger from time to time, eager to capture your image and fly in the ancient wasteland ... If you are not here, you will be so strict, you will lie in the dark, and the elegant and magnificent curtain of poetry will be excited. Close your eyes and countless peach blossoms bury you and me in the living and dead poets. (2) Pray for me, Ai Qing. It's sunny and calm. You must have seen the woman who painted plum blossoms, seen endless banquets, heard the unspoken words and looked at you. You saw me. When you reached the sky, you must have seen the sun. The bright light whimpered like those faint particles in the water, drifted away and scattered leaves in the sky. The villages bowed their heads. You cast the sun as a golden wheel and don't count it. The Lightbringer opens all the doors and windows to welcome you, honks the whistle to welcome you, blows the horn to welcome you, and welcomes the street sweeper to sweep the street. Please drive the truck to move the garbage and let the workers walk in the street with broad steps. Make the truck shine. Our team crossed the square. Please wake up from the wet fog. Please open their fence for me. Please ask the women in the village to open their chickens. Please ask the farmer to take the cow out of the cowshed. Let them know through your warm mouth that I am from the other side of the mountain, gentle and withered. It is impossible for me to be completely in love or embarrassed by painting enough paper as pale yellow as pollen. A beautiful living goldsmith can untie my clothes and clothes. From the other side of the forest, let them clean up the fields in the sun and the dirty days and wells forever. Please open the window with paper. Please open the door with Spring Festival couplets. Please wake up women and men who snore in Yin Qin, and let young lovers get up with greed. Please wake up the sleepy mother and the baby next to her. Please wake up everyone, even pregnant women who are sick, even people who are lying in bed moaning, even the wounded who are fighting for justice, even refugees who fled because of the collapse of their hometown. I will comfort those unfortunate people, please wake up an artificial person who loves life, get up and tell them that what they have been waiting for is very important. Guided by the last star, I crossed the dew. I come from the east, and I will bring light to the world and warmth to mankind. People's mouths, please take me away, people with burning eyes and thirsty eyes and distant cities and villages immersed in hardships, please welcome me in the first drive of a white day, that is, let the most unlucky people see you, let the mottled high-color shrubs entangled by countless nightmares, please tell them that what they are waiting for is coming. Irving Engelster's mornings are embedded in a neat grid of light blue, like air, water and spinach. You bring happiness to people and let you spread a bright and beautiful tablecloth made of all gold silk. Today, when I see your brilliance, I will be happy and strong until my life is taken away by death. After the long and lonely winter, when I got out of bed, my heart was full of excitement, shining on the window that I hadn't opened for a long time, embracing the birth of the red regime all over the mountains and thinking of Ai Qing's nanny Dayan River.
I love you just as people love their mothers. Technicians and painters invite singers to sing to welcome the sound of grass and dew, and dancers dance to welcome them. Please wake up those healthy and beautiful people and say I'll knock on their windows at once. Please be faithful to the poems of the times. People bring comfort to mankind, please be prepared for it. You nourish my thoughts and thoughts with light and heat, and let me live with passion. Seeing bright lights burning my skin, countless windows are like human ears. You pricked up your ears and felt your comfort in your heart. The wheat in the village rolled sadly. Waving the birth of a poet on the mountain, you immortal philosopher, opened and closed a winter window and heard subtle voices and tenderness. I'm surprised to see you. I woke up from my sleep and hugged Ai Qing (1), which made Ai Qing unable to turn blue.
4. Ask the poem about "Hugging Ai Qing" not to turn blue. I think of Ai Qing, the tall mottled shrubs and the leaves scattered in the sky. The villages bowed their heads and were excited by the magnificent curtain of poetry. Mountains and plains embraced the birth of a red regime. I think of Ai Qing's nanny Dayan River. The wheat in the sad village is tumbling, like air, water, spinach and reeds, waving the birth of a poet on the mountain. Like those faint particles sobbing in the water, following the wind speed and reaching the sky, we must see the sun, see the bright lights burning the skin, and countless windows are like people's ears. You pricked up your ears, heard subtle voices, and all kinds of tenderness were calmed down. You must have seen the woman who painted plum blossoms, seen the endless banquet, and heard the unspoken words, green, withered, incomplete love or embarrassment, existence or nothingness. You are a poet, you stand in the river, and I stand on the roof of Hepo Old Street.
Give me a poem about Ai Qing, Tree. A tree stands apart from each other. Wind and air tell them the distance, but under the cover of soil, their roots grow in the invisible depths. Their roots are intertwined. If I were a bird, I would also sing with a hoarse throat: this land hit by storms is forever surging with our rivers of grief and indignation, blowing endlessly.
Why do I often cry? Because I love this land deeply ... "Gone Years" is not like lost luggage that can be found in the lost and found. I don't even know where the lost years are-some of them just disappeared in pieces. Some have been lost for ten or twenty years, some in noisy cities, some in distant wasteland, some in crowded stations, and some under deserted small oil lamps; Lost is not like a piece of paper, but more like a bowl of water thrown on the ground to dry, and there is no shadow; Time is a flowing liquid-you can't salvage it with a sieve or net; Time cannot become a solid, but it should be a fossil. Even if you can find tens of thousands of years in the rock, time is like gas, like smoke from the front of a speeding train! The lost years are like a friend, who lost contact, suffered a little, and suddenly had news; He said that he had left the earth "Snow falls on the land of China" and snow falls on the land of China. The cold is blocking the wind in China ... Like an old woman who is too sad, she closely follows the cold fingers, tugs at the skirts of pedestrians, and talks incessantly, as old as your land ... The China farmer who appeared in the forest, driving a carriage, wearing a fur hat and braving the heavy snow, where are you going? I tell you, I am also a descendant of farmers-because your wrinkled faces are full of epilepsy, I can know so deeply the hardships of people living on the grassland.
And I am not happier than you-the waves of suffering lying on the river of time have swallowed me up and rolled me up several times-wandering and imprisoning, losing the most precious days of my youth, and my life is as haggard as you. Snow falls on the land of China, and the cold is blocking China ... A small oil lamp moves slowly by the river on a snowy night, and the light is reflected on the tattered Wu Peng boat. Who is sitting with his head down? Ah, you unkempt little woman, is this your home-has the happy and warm nest been burned down by a ferocious enemy? Is it also like this night, without the protection of men, in the horror of death, you were teased by the enemy's bayonet? On such a cold night, countless elderly mothers are like foreigners who don't know how far the wheels will roll tomorrow. -The roads in China are rugged and muddy.
Snowflakes fall on the land of China: the cold is blocking China ... In those areas that have been eaten by bonfires, countless land cultivators have lost their livestock, and they have squeezed the fields of Wo Wo into the hopeless and dirty alleys of life; The hungry earth stretched out trembling arms to the dark sky. The pain and disaster in China is as vast and long as this snowy night! Snow falls on the land of China, and the cold is blocking China ... China, can I give you some warmth in my weak poem written at night without lights? .
6. Ai Qing's poem 6 is short. I love this land
-
Author: Ai Qing
If I were a bird,
I should also sing with a hoarse throat:
This land hit by the storm,
This river of sadness and anger will surge forever,
This endless wind,
And the gentle dawn from the forest ...-and then I died,
Even feathers rot in the ground.
Why do I often cry?
Because I love this land deeply. ...
dream
-
Author: Ai Qing
When awake
Can only fantasize
Dreams will visit them when they are asleep.
Maybe childhood friends.
Maybe friends come from afar.
There is pain on the wire bed.
There is joy on the straw.
Give when needed.
Massive theft
It's not a false alarm
If something is lost,
mineral
-
Author: Ai Qing
Wave after wave
Come to me endlessly
Every wave is at its feet.
Beaten to pieces and scattered.
……
Its face and body.
Like a knife.
But it's still standing there
Looking at the sea with a smile.
……
ichthyolite
-
Author: Ai Qing
How vivid the action is,
How energetic,
Jumping in the waves,
Floating on the sea;
Unfortunately, when the volcano erupts,
Could be an earthquake,
You lost your freedom,
Buried in dust;
Hundreds of millions of years later,
Members of the geological survey team are at
Found you in the rocks,
Still lifelike.
But you were silent,
Not even a sigh,
Scales and fins are intact,
But can't move;
You're absolutely still,
No response to the outside world,
Can't see the sky and water,
I can't hear the waves.
Staring at a fossil,
Even fools learn a lesson:
Without exercise,
There is no life.
To live is to fight,
March forward in the struggle,
When death did not come,
Clean up the energy
If I were a bird,
I should also sing with a hoarse throat:
This land hit by the storm,
This river of sadness and anger will surge forever,
This endless wind,
And the tender dawn from the forest. ...
And then I died,
Even feathers rot in the ground.
Why do I often cry?
Because I love this land deeply. ...
1938165438+10/7
expect
A sailor said:
What he likes best is the white spray caused by anchoring. ...
A sailor said:
What pleased him most was the sound of the chain when the anchor broke down. ...
Looking forward to leaving
Hope of arrival
1979 March Shanghai