The modern poem about cicada was written by myself.

The cicada in July is crying.

Cicada in July

In the thick leaves

Louder than in June.

Such a hot summer

Cicada's trick

Is to hide

The cicada's cry

Let go of the dreariness of summer

Release bit by bit

The cultivators are cleaning up in the ravine.

Mature crops

Sweat soaked the clothes.

This is a harvest season.

Farmers are in rice fields.

Take the time to deliver food.

I forgot to wipe the sweat off my forehead.

Harvest crops and seeds in the double harvest season

Grain return to warehouse

Xia Chan.

When the hot summer comes,

Your singing comes with the heat,

Fill this summer with your voice,

Decorate with a short journey.

When the scorching sun devours the earth,

It's time for you to sing,

The hotter the weather, the louder your song will be.

Just for this short life,

When the breeze brings a hint of coolness,

Your voice began to tremble,

Getting smaller and smaller,

Because this summer is coming to an end.

About a cicada

Dear,

Come and sit down. Let's talk.

About a cicada

We don't talk about its wings.

So are its smooth and bright wings.

Thin, too thin to hold.

My heart is full, and a piece of paper is transparent.

There is no connotation at all.

Everything is clear at a glance.

We don't talk about its life.

Its life is too short.

We haven't had time to be quiet for a while.

Appreciation, not tenderness.

Alas, I haven't felt the tears yet.

Pain, all the time.

Blown dry by wind

Let's talk about it

Underground covert operation time, right?

Three years? Or seventeen years?

Long wait

Poverty and loneliness

A cicada

Loud cicada chirping

Bright cicada

In the dark night

Lonely and ordinary

We talk about it.

This cicada

Drink a glass of water.

Warm your hands.