Did Yan Lu listen to poetry or prose?

It belongs to prose poetry: the sea is thoughtful under our feet, like a poet. The voice seemed as gentle as the dim moonlight and the morning mist of roses; It is as fragrant as a lover's honeyed words; Low and gentle, like a breeze fingering a string; Like falling flowers on the water.

The sea is asleep.

The big and small islands hugged, snuggled up and fell asleep quietly.

For a long time, we also like to sleep and stop all thoughts and emotions.

I don't know how long it took, but the bell of the distant temple suddenly awakened the dream in the depths of the sea. It aroused the excitement of the waves in anger, gradually lifted the rocks under our feet and made a gurgling sound, like someone breathing at the bottom of the sea, and the silver light on the sea shook with it, like a silver dragon. Then bells, cymbals, and bells and drums played on the rocks under our feet, louder and louder.

There is no wind. The sea woke up on its own, panting, sideways, yawning, stretching and wiping its eyes. Because the island blocked its rotation, it kicked with its feet, pushed with its hands and bit with its teeth. Every moment is more and more exciting and harder. The rocks seemed to tremble gradually, giving a howl of resistance, breaking the scales of the sea and scattering all over the floor.

The sea finally got angry. It growled and violently rushed to the shore to attack, rushed into the cracks in the rock and poked at the barrier of the rock.

The louder the stereo. Drums, gongs, shouts, trumpets, shouts, hooves, wheels and wings are mixed together, like a melee of thousands of troops.

The silver light disappeared. The sea surged and swallowed up the islands far and near. It descended from our feet, roared like thunder, and splashed bloody waves at us in waves.