Write poems about the prosperity of modern cities.

Shiny tiles reflect the lonely faces of human beings, and smoke and dust are omitted hastily. The soil is hard to find red beans and acacia, and the rain is hard to vomit. The lonely rainbow in the city is cold and stiff. Looking into the distance, my hometown doesn't want to hide my lost face. The truck grinds back and forth, shouting sand. Pedestrians walk on it, their legs are shaking, their eyes are shaking, tearing at the broken scene. Lonely cold spilled on lonely species. Zhuang Ren's wild grass covered his face. I don't want to see the cold in this city any more.