I want to indulge not only my poems, but also my thoughts. I hope they will not only cross the charming mountains, but also cross the vast ocean.
I not only want to indulge my emotions, but also my soul. I want them to walk not only through the dense forest, but also through the hazy starry sky.
I want my poems to flow where I yearn, and I want my thoughts to blossom all over the world.
I want my emotions to run into the alley where he lives, and I want my soul to wander where he can feel it.
2. Snow is the postman of snow.
Say goodbye to the fallen leaves at the top of the tree, put away the compass lamp in your heart and hide it in the compass to rotate clockwise or counterclockwise.
Immersed in the interpretation of the wise man, talking to the snow, plum blossoms are unique, and the winter password runs through the ages.
Snow is the postman of snow, and I am my postman.
We all send them to spring with wax prints.
3. Si Nuo's stationery has been opened.
After Xue's stationery was opened, he was silent.
A piece of land covered with green is as soft as cotton and as warm as a cloud.
Snow changed the fate of wheat and corrected its stain.
Looking at the quiet wheat, I looked up and asked-who will decorate my unsophisticated heart?
I often empty my heart.
I am a stone in the grass. I don't walk with mountains, I don't embrace rivers, and I'm not tempted by flowers in the distance. When it rains, I will stand still.
I often see dewdrops quivering on the grass tips in the middle of the night, which makes me covet the moonlight, and all the storms and thunder are after I get drunk.
Every time the grass bends down, lightning and thunder patronize their desires and are taken away by the high-powered black.
I often put my heart on Yuzryha's knife to sharpen my bones.
This spring, I found the wrong season to bloom.
It's all about magnolia, cherry blossoms, begonia and apricot peaches and pears, not me.
This spring, I misread the season of flowers and fell in love with sunflowers.
Yellow discs often come to my window in the early morning, and the reflected golden silk thread passes through the green leaves like a canvas.
Reminds me of Van Gogh. If I had his pen at this time, I would not hesitate to hold it up and crush the wreath with a toothed plate.
Even if it doesn't work, I want to move out of the drawing board, embed it in it and shoot it with light.
6. I shout for snow in winter.
I cry snow, clarity and purity in winter.
Mei leaned out and made up some small details, those hidden buds, practicing herself.
When you are upset, please remember to push the window at night to watch the cat curl up.
7. There is as much snow as spring.
Trees in winter don't lie. As soon as they opened their mouths, snow came.
Through a wall, there was a bird song, accompanied by the sound of a bud arching.
who is it? Run in the noise
8. The stars sucked up the oil slick.
On a cloudy day, unimaginative words fall down and stand upright, giving birth to all kinds of things.
Castle Peak sucked away the pine trees on the opposite side, and people passing by the hillside stood upright-all infected with pride.
Birds bite vertically, jump left and right on branches, build nests and hook a basket of dreams.
The stars suck away those who shed gratitude for life in the sky and pray for contempt with their hands-wandering in the lost streets.
9. The branches hold out green hands.
The branches stretched out their green hands calling me, and the face with wrinkles of time was hidden in the call.
On this face, there are eyes shining like stars, and those lights grow into oceans and mountains.
Those shining wings under the sky are the masters of everything in the world.
Shadows, winds and insects all know how to empty themselves and make the world calm.
10. This "thing" of time
I don't know when it will get dark, and I don't need to know.
The "thing" of time, sometimes like a vast landscape, sometimes like a spot on the face, the so-called sunrise and sunset is just the life curve of a certain day.
As for the degree of bending, it may be like a wave repeatedly practiced by the seaside, or it may be like a flame that flies straight for nine days after a volcanic eruption, or-like this time, a stray cat tired in the corner faces the cold in winter and the darkness at night alone.
1 1. I don't want to call out a poem at this time.
I'm sure the heavy snow comes from midnight, and I'm sure the irregular footprints come from that winding path.
When the wind knocks on the branches and all the lights in the window lattice, it "goes out instead of listening"
I don't want to call out a poem at this time. I want them to sleep like anything else.
In this way, they don't have to bear my hope, and they don't have to take back themselves in the dark with sadness, and they are helplessly released during the day.
12. Love in the snow
Who tries to knock on the spring door in January? Who is bowing their heads to miss the old love? Oh, it's wind, it's snow, it's owl!
Open the door, open the door, go out and meet in the snow! Who is that intersection?
The wind is blowing, holding the fragrance of plum, running and coming to a section of pure snow, endless words.
13. Wake up.
Accidentally knocked over your poem "Love", as delicate as porcelain.
Perhaps, I should carry the box of moonlight on the texture of love and deconstruct the phonology. Perhaps, I should board the hall of love with a clear idea and read aloud that this "love" is mine, mine and mine.
However, I am afraid that the emotions that have been hidden for a long time will be hit.
So, I picked up a pen and quickly wrote frost and snow in the corner of the page, just for the plum blossom seal.
14. Who is performing for you except the snow?
A sense of darkness in winter, the chill that snowflake dance can't escape, precipitated in the long river of life and wrote "The moonlight is colder at dawn until eight o'clock in the morning"
The pond is frozen. Is it just a few glasses of thin wine and three or two pots of cold air that you can read the mind of the lotus?
Spring flowers have been defeated for three seasons, and wicker is still struggling in the dream. Whether to go to the south or the north depends on the lost picture of Stefanie Liang.
Even if the story of the old year's broken branches is embedded in the spring, only a touch of smoke stains can be seen.
Push open the window and overlook. Who is performing for you except the snow?
15. I looked back again.
I looked back at the fallen flowers again, and I endured the pain they brought me when they touched the wind.
I am not Daiyu. I will not find a secluded place with a hoe, nor will I cry for them in public.
I stopped because they were too dazzling, red, dripping and delicate in powder. They gathered in the wind, dispersed and gathered again.
It seems that a group of people are showing their shining wings for an evil thing in the evening breeze before the night comes.
16. Trees and flowers know how to cultivate themselves.
The snow has fallen and melted. They are very happy to be here.
Everything regards it as a god, and people call it an elf. They don't burn incense and kowtow to it, but they take pictures again and again with their cameras.
Trees and flowers, know how to cultivate one's morality. They climbed up or stretched down in an orderly way.
Look at that plum, which is popular in the cold wind, just proves that it is inseparable from everything and snow.
17. You have morning light, flowers and plants in your eyes.
Lying, standing and squatting are all touched by the wind and taken care of by the cloud.
There is morning light, flowers, vegetation, light and tearing spots in the eyes, from past life to this life to the intersection of the afterlife where you and I meet.
When a yogi walks by, a smile is a bright lamp, and a warm breath melts into it.
Blink of an eye, turn around and miss hundreds of millions of scenery.
18. My eyes are among them.
In spring, running all over the world on the gray wall can't help but be brilliant.
Red, yellow and blue clothes and unknown flowers and plants are waving and talking uncertainly.
The whole spring, my eyes squeezed out water for the first time, and I was excited in it.
When I looked back, I was surprised to find that my window was full of spring.
19. Flowers fall out after many years
When I was a child, the fallen flower was a bow that fell from the head of my neighbor's elder sister. Bow cried that day, and so did my elder sister. I didn't cry.
When I grow up, I fly out of a dream of red mansions. After it flew out, it flew in again and lay beside Daiyu's hoe. I see Daiyu crying, I see flowers crying and I cry.
A few years later, the fallen flowers are the armor I lost when the evening breeze passed through the sunset, and the scars of the years when the hour hand passed through the minute hand.
20. Every year, flowers are stained with dew.
This spring, I have been reading and watching flowers, last year, the year before last, three years, five years, many years ago.
Every year, the flowers are stained with tender dew, and there are unfinished stories or secrets to be released.
Such as: the green vine waiting to climb, the quiet lake with bright eyes reflecting the pupils, the empty and crowded birds singing in the recovering waves and the lightning highlighted in the dark sky.
Among these flowers, there are other scenes-a man wearing a hat sitting by the river, easily catching my spring.
2 1. Quiet trees can also hear the crash.
On the river bank, crowded and quiet trees can also hear the collision.
Walking, running, wandering, flying kites and fishing all form a landscape because of the light.
On the other side of these landscapes, I talked with absinthe, blue thistle and nobody's chrysanthemums. They asked me why I was wearing a mask, and I was too ashamed to speak.
I asked them: Standing here every day, I can understand the sky, the earth and people. They asked me to ask questions about running water, which would spin into a whirlpool. The more I ask, the deeper it turns, and the more urgent it becomes.
22. I continue my life between dawn and dusk.
A wild chrysanthemum, two Chinese wolfberry and three red dates accompanied me, watching the leaves that the clouds could not understand and playing with light and shadow for the birds that had just flown away.
The distant mountains may want to have something to do with my life. The smoke in my hometown and the water in the Han River are pushed in waves.
People who want to meet but don't want to meet create a vast and grand morning or coma with a smile, and I continue my life between dawn and dusk.
23. Time is so kind
Standing at the window, watching and listening to the rain, I suddenly saw a man coming from a distance, swaying leisurely.
A thousand miles, a hundred miles, a mile is so kind, I can feel his grace and touch his smile in the cold rain.
All the past events are constantly restoring that restless yearning and regret, and many unspeakable joys, bitterness and melancholy are indulged and floated in the confused and empty desires.
I locked in the scene at this time, locked in the place where he walked, locked in the words of gathering, separation and reunion, and shouted his name.
People come and go staring at me as if to cut open my body and heart.
How can I make my love for him grow steadily and vigorously?
24. Ginkgo biloba leaves are not yellow, why do they fall off?
Ginkgo biloba leaves are not yellow, why do they fall? When you ask me, I mean the wind pushes the rain.
Rain, dripping with grievances.
The wind just wants to blow things as they are, and the rain is only anxious when the leaves are undecided. I was caught in the wind and rain, and I couldn't tell the road from the road.
You look at the sky like a bystander, and I count the fallen leaves and loneliness in my familiar expression.
25. What did you leave when you left?
The fallen leaves on the ground fold the vicissitudes of life into the sky.
The confused lotus has not yet decided to integrate into the winter and guard the autumn with its stump and broken arm.
The fish and shrimp in the pond swam with all their strength in the tiny ripples, making the gloomy sky suddenly vivid.
The rapid opening and closing sound of winter rain shocked everything.
Autumn has gone, leaving the lotus. You left, what did you leave behind?
26. Morning painting
At dawn, the sound of someone moving a chair woke up the fragrance of chrysanthemum that broke out overnight and floated in the streets.
A bowl of churning porridge overwhelmed the desire at night and all the obsessions that floated up.
Pick up the knife and fork handed over during the day and release the long-standing seasoning on one cake after another without thinking.
A man came out from the opposite side of Qingshi Lane and painted chopsticks in porridge, stirring them from alley east to alley west and from alley west to alley east.
The old man who just learned to scan the code to pay laughs like tofu in a bowl.
In this morning full of fireworks, every fallen leaf and every dewdrop is expressed in its own unique way.
Look, a bichon's furry tail is stuck on his back, and he looks at every painting this morning curiously with a pair of black eyes.
27. Maybe at this time, it's time to include it in a painting.
There is no shadow of catching the wind, no rain of homing swallows, and lonely rain outside the window.
The light from the window across the street strafed through the silent Woods for an hour. What touched the affectionate branches of the trunk in the dark night and shook it?
Perhaps at this time, people who should have devoted themselves to painting isolation should listen to the unfinished wishes in the season.
28. The sun sets and falls into the water.
A person in an empty valley, looking at the deep sky.
Missing is banished like a prisoner. The Shan Ye breeze you breathe stubbornly blows at me. The stone you are sitting on pulls my skirt and looks at the clouds quietly.
The butterfly that once kissed your collar chased me and avoided the maple leaf by my stream, like meeting the fierce red of the bonfire at night, like you met me for the first time.
Frost took a few spare hours to talk about life, artificial lakes and pavilions, begonia trees and wild chrysanthemums, and glass balls that had time to pop out.
One meeting after another said that we missed the sunset and lied. We fell into the water and didn't know whether we were drunk or awake.
29. Wild chrysanthemums want to be called Wang Qiu.
Those wild chrysanthemums want to be the king of autumn and bloom desperately. They want to overwhelm osmanthus, wild rose and begonia with their vast fragrance.
They are on the hillside, on the roadside in rows, wave after wave, and pieces of golden flames are raised above their heads in a unified way, with great momentum, like a million mighty men crossing the river.
Wind, come, come, rain, come, come. Even though thunder was raging and lightning fell on my forehead, they still drove wildly.
The mountains are full of their yellow eyes, and the rivers are full of their fragrance. Men, women and children are chased by yellow storms, and even the sun is blocked by yellow, stuck in chrysanthemums, unable to tell the direction.
Osmanthus fragrans fell in a hurry, and roses ran to the roadside of the city. Haitang stood in the yard and looked around. I sat on the bench where the sunset sat and moved the wild chrysanthemum to the girl's bow with my eyes.
The girl shook her ponytail and told the truth that chrysanthemums hold autumn.
30. It's snowing
It's snowing, and the footsteps outside the window are lighter. Mei Zhi, put away the sad piccolo and watch the wind, and open the winter letter page by page.
A long afternoon is the same as a long midnight.
Red and white, coincidentally meeting, all hide a fire, and the flame is threatening.