Modern poetry praising chalk

Chalk career This life is destined to hold your hand and write about the moon, the moon, the spring and autumn. This life is destined to be a lighted red candle, not a long life, not a cold world, but I am lucky. I chose this colorful life path-two inches of chalk-three feet of forging ahead platform-five feet of climbing the blackboard-a small hand to open up the earth-a pen with a clever smile-a flute to welcome spring. The sun rises above my head-the moon slips from my fingers every day-there are no flowers every night-as long as the onion cage doesn't need enthusiastic admiration-it can only be given away silently ... I stand between flowers and fruits, between children and the world, between the earth and space, between reality and the future, and I stand on an overpass-towering into the north and south sky. Way-things are unimpeded. In the storm, I hold the ferry and make a tireless boat-I insist on the ferry and turn it into a sleepless lighthouse-to guide the navigation ... I collect confusing sunlight and turn it into butterfly wings on children's heads. I picked grass leaves covered with pearls and used them to weave fairy tales in children's hearts. I dug a deep well of wisdom, and let it gush out showers that moisten children's hearts. I cut a fantasy cloud and hung it on the teacher, so that he and the children can look forward to it together. I regard the children's naked eyes and the warmth of my blood as the sun that never sets. I regard the children's chicken-like singing as a symphony that can be silently recited and moved in my heart. I regard children's innocent smiles as my happy reading. I write my eternal youth and immortal life as a chalk career. My brilliant life ... I hope to surge in the waves ... Smile and wave at me on the other side ... There will be a rainbow in the future ... Raise a glass in space and invite me to travel without shaking hands ... Just look back silently ... My silent singing has become a colorful butterfly dream ... but the years are hard ... The frost marks bleached with two manes indicate that it belongs to yesterday. The lush roots on the forehead in spring show that the tall and straight body has weathered into dancing crystals in the annual rings carved by the years ... Even a drop of water is about to be confiscated by the sun, it will flash charming crystal, even a passing meteor will hold up the last blazing light, even a camel suddenly lying in the desert will leave a pile of white bones and a piece of green shade ... At the end of the west, countless sunsets have been fished up, and the dawn of a day is the heavy hope I have pursued all my life.