Modern Poetry in the Dream World

(A) the dream of flying

warm braw

Kiss goodbye to the vibrant summer.

A little green, chubby.

Love turns branches into homes.

This is Mao Mao rain from heaven.

Jingwei is tired of wearing Sang Ma.

Dream of a red place.

Gently cover it gently.

There will be no more wind and rain.

Some chicks have just come out of the nest on the branch.

wet behind the ears

Licked by autumn rain

A little uglier and greener.

Tomorrow they will put their dreams.

Send them to their respective ends of the earth.

The old nest left behind

Only lonely parents are left.

Comb each other's feathers

Whispering happily.

The children have finally grown up.

Father Bird flew to Gardenia's room.

The flowers bloom luxuriantly.

With an emerald petal in his mouth.

Down beside the relieved mother bird.

Eyes narrowed into a line.

Signal her to accept it.

A gust of wind shook the branches on my feet.

The mother bird in the sweet thought of a few birds flying away.

Are you all full today?

Whether to rely on others

Father bird and mother bird are better than the sky.

Call some bird names.

Big fellow Neil St. Xiao Sha Jia Jia

(2) Architecture in dreams

Walking in familiar buildings and alleys

My eyes are not what they used to be.

Only the old broken moonlight accompanied me.

The heavy footsteps seemed to say

It turns out that time also has weight.

Relive the alleys of the past.

Feet are deliberately looking for the forgotten past.

It's already on green moss and bluestone.

The past has become the past.

on / in the street

Touch the blue brick wall covered with giant knotweed

The mottled room is full of vicissitudes.

The yellow leaves curled up in a pile.

Deduct inner sadness

Silent streets and alleys

Looking at the shabby south-facing window

It seems that grandpa's story is still being told.

By the old willow tree

I can still smell the little girl's rouge.

Memories of streets and alleys

From east to west

Without oriole's shallow singing, Yan Qin's lines are gone.

The purpose of the calendar is green frost and bathing in the sunset.

Difficult streets and lanes

I can't forget too much.

Only the wild chrysanthemum with broken branches stands on the broken wall.

Anxious to keep the fleeting time.

Say goodbye to youthful frivolity.

Immerse yourself in icy snow.

I tied up the pieces of missing.

It's in a fleeting booklet. It's a good collection.

But at the time of sealing,

I don't know how to collect the beauty of the street.

Lift the heavy pen container.

I don't want to be ashamed of it.