I'm wearing a coat of stars and the moon.
The fishing fire blew me out
My parents kicked me out.
A prodigal son wandering in this foreign land
I am a peasant girl.
I should be.
In this quiet country
Tea picking girl
Without a trace of sadness
Pick a ripple of morning dew
Wake up the smoke in the village
And a kind boy.
Snuggle up on the bank
But why?
I came to the other side of a strange city.
Although I spent the night under the ancient starlight.
Although I am at home in a stream full of wild chrysanthemums.
I meet you
Although I never said
I love you
I dropped it.
Let's drink to this city full of wine.
Sip the bitter tears of missing.
A person depressed by misfortune
Raise your head at the wound
Weave the beauty of dreams
I’m going home.
I want to go back to my hometown and put a flower in my head.
Wearing a ring made of reeds
Laugh or be silent.
I want to put a daisy from my hometown in my mind.
Modern poetry of the prodigal son 2. Cold winter night, accompanied by cock crow.
Father and I walked in the silent night.
Your body and the radian of the earth are like an arch bridge.
Stumbling, carrying all my son's luggage.
The cold wind all over the sky hid the stars
The lamp in my father's hand guides me, towards the distant.
Hot blood, rushing in my chest.
More and more broad-minded people store too many emotions.
The son can only record the dribs and drabs of life with false words.
Decorate with your great feelings.
Your wandering son in the city is your eternal concern.
Letters from home, originally written by your son. Report.
Success again and again should be your son's happiness.
What you get is always your son's silent training.
Wandering in a foreign land, afraid to pluck the strings of missing.
When I am lonely, I listen to the wet touch with my heart.
Call home, your son's ears are full of your worries.
Full of your expectations for your son, and the comfort of sewing up his mental trauma.
You put high hopes on me and let me face it frankly.
Missing is like a door, and hope always rotates in memory.
Missing is like a well, hoping to give you a cool feeling.
Modern poem 3 of the prodigal son, I think, that's it.
Dreams and pain
No longer occupy the body and mind
Look forward to more distant prosperity
Forever after the spring in front of us.
I wonder if the next stop is close to happiness.
Wandering loneliness
I'm used to it.
But I'm looking forward to the waiting of the branches.
Harvest a long time together.
I think that life gives.
A wave of unrest, a wave of trouble followed.
How much I want to.
With the enthusiasm of dancers
An unbridled and uncompromising youth
I think people, you and me.
What a dramatic role.
Kissing crazily in the dark.
In novels and poems
I am sentimental and love and hate myself.
I think, allow me to have the idea of staying awake.
Who said the world was before I came?
It's no different from after I left.
You are still you.
I still love myself.