Modern Poetry of Missing Relatives

My mind is round, Ai Qing. My mind is round. The moon in August and Mid-Autumn Festival is also the brightest and roundest. No matter how high the mountain is and how wide the sea is, you can see it. What do you think of on such a night? My thoughts are round, watermelons and apples are round, the reunion between people is joyful, the separation of flesh and blood is painful, and those who miss their loved ones look at the bright moon in the sky. Who can swallow moon cakes? Inscription: Buddha said: You have to look back 500 times in your previous life to get a pass in this life. So, how many times do I have to look back before I can really live in your heart? (-Xi Murong) In my last life, I looked back frequently, waved goodbye to my handkerchief and floated into the clouds. How many lovesickness and sadness have finally become water marks that have sent me away from this life. I'm looking for the lost footprints in my previous life and wading into your eyes. I looked back 500 times in my last life in exchange for a lost time in my life. I used a thousand times to look back for a stop in front of you. Ask Buddha: How many times do I have to look back before I can really live in your heart? You can only turn around frequently, like a moth to a fire, regardless of the consequences. I can look back a thousand times and ten thousand times for no reason. You are in my eyes, in my heart. I often look back and look forward to your gentleness. I recall my wish to be together in my last life. I look back at the lotus leaves on the boat and associate them with the sadness in my eyes. The Buddha in this life has made my thoughts come true. I've been looking for you for a long time, and I just want to stop in your arms. I just want you. Wipe the tears off my face with your hand. I just want your body temperature to warm my cold hands. Don't ask me why I have been looking for you all my life. I didn't drink Meng Po Tang. I'm worried about you. Don't ask me why I am crying. I didn't drink Meng Po Tang. I still remember the despair when I left in my last life. I cried with joy. Tears fall on your chest. All kinds of sorrows in previous lives have blossomed into a dense lilac. I just want to join hands with you under the tree and watch that flower blossom into five petals, predicting our happiness in this life. I still often look back on this life. I still don't drink Meng Po Tang in the afterlife. I will go to the afterlife from far away to find you. I will also hold hands with you to find a five-petal lilac tree. How did Xi Murong let you meet me at my most beautiful moment? For this reason, I have been studying Buddhism in front of the Buddha for 500 years, so let's form a dusty Buddha, and then turn me into a tree and grow in the sunshine on the roadside that you must pass. It was the hope of my past life when you approached. Please listen carefully to the trembling leaves, which is the passion I am waiting for. When you finally walk past those friends who have fallen behind you, it is not petals, but my dying homesickness. Tonight, my mother's hand shook off the stars for nine days, and the moon swayed in her hand. When I was a child tonight, I rode on the back of a cow and listened to my mother say: The moon is a silver flute, and the moon cake is the moon painted in the sky. Reflected in the eyes. Tonight's teenager, standing by the old well, heard his mother say: the moon is a golden pulley, and the moon cake is the moon that falls at the bottom of the well. Put your mouth in your heart. As a young man, I left my hometown with frivolous ambitions. My mother said: When you are homesick, take a flute and play a moonlight song in your hometown. Tonight, the moonlight is like China, and the years are like China. I held the stars and the moon in my mother's hand, and her mother said, son, drink your hometown and come to your heart. Oh, this is a bowl of water in that old well. Homesickness (prose poem) Christmas flowers are as red as blood, and the air in the city thousands of miles away becomes cold. In the morning, my mother's phone call and a few words of comfort are old and warm, warming the frozen memory. The city is bustling and empty, full of vain happiness, but I am barren everywhere, looking for a strange sense of familiarity. When your hand reached out, there were levels of pain and weakness I endured. You said it was time to go home. Although it is bustling and noisy, it never belongs to us. The local accent curled up and tears flowed from my eyes. No one wants to be like a wandering soul in a foreign land, which makes us miss our home so much. It is becoming more and more barren and decadent, like the sigh and tears of the old man. We are also high-spirited and arrogant. But there is always an innate wound in my heart, which hurts when I touch it. Sadly, we grew up in the same land under the same blue sky, but that land has both advantages and disadvantages. There is a pure sunny heart with a faint blue color. There is a pure happiness that supports the fatigue day after day. Maybe everything will change when we grow up. If we see more clutches, our hearts will be as hard as iron. However, in the dark, silent, inch by inch, peeling off are missing bodies. The path in front of the door, the bamboo forest behind the house. The early cock crows and the farmers go home at sunset. The playmate next door, the boy at the same table. And ignorant and shy love. Some things, after passing, leave traces and become years and memories. Although there is a little pain, it will be ignored occasionally, but it will never be forgotten. Some emotions, like the simple feelings of teenagers, will show a faint blue color after experiencing a disaster. Your sadness lurks in the mottled shadow of the old house, and the grass is already sad all around. The young face reflected in the pond is naive and happy. Now our hearts have flown too far. I was disconnected. Inch by inch, you said that even if life is evergreen, there will always be a day when leaves will take root. On the way home. We are together. There are many holy monks under the tree, and each flower is a Buddha. Time has no shadow, water is silent and a leaf is wasted. July 10 13:50 "Looking Back" Inscription: Buddha said: Looking back 500 times in previous lives can only be exchanged for passing by once in this life. So, how many times do I have to look back before I can really live in your heart? (-Xi Murong) In my last life, I looked back frequently, waved goodbye to my handkerchief and floated into the clouds. How many lovesickness and sadness have finally become water marks that have sent me away from this life. I'm looking for the lost footprints in my previous life and wading into your eyes. I looked back 500 times in my last life in exchange for a lost time in my life. I used a thousand times to look back for a stop in front of you. Ask Buddha: How many times do I have to look back before I can really live in your heart? You can only turn around frequently, like a moth to a fire, regardless of the consequences. I can look back a thousand times and ten thousand times for no reason. You are in my eyes, in my heart. I often look back and look forward to your gentleness. I recall my wish to be together in my last life. I look back at the lotus leaves on the boat and associate them with the sadness in my eyes. The Buddha in this life has made my thoughts come true. I've been looking for you for a long time, and I just want to stop in your arms. I just want you. Wipe the tears off my face with your hand. I just want your body temperature to warm my cold hands. Don't ask me why I have been looking for you all my life. I didn't drink Meng Po Tang. I'm worried about you. Don't ask me why I am crying. I didn't drink Meng Po Tang. I still remember the despair when I left in my last life. I cried with joy. Tears fall on your chest. All kinds of sorrows in previous lives have blossomed into a dense lilac. I just want to join hands with you under the tree and watch that flower blossom into five petals, predicting our happiness in this life. I still often look back on this life. I still don't drink Meng Po Tang in the afterlife. I will go to the afterlife from far away to find you. I will also hold hands with you to find a five-petal lilac tree. How did Xi Murong let you meet me at my most beautiful moment? For this reason, I have been studying Buddhism in front of the Buddha for 500 years, so let's form a dusty Buddha, and then turn me into a tree and grow in the sunshine on the roadside that you must pass. It was the hope of my past life when you approached. Please listen carefully to the trembling leaves, which is the passion I am waiting for. When you finally walk past those friends who have fallen behind you, it is not petals, but my dying homesickness. Tonight, my mother's hand shook off the stars for nine days, and the moon swayed in her hand. When I was a child tonight, I rode on the back of a cow and listened to my mother say: The moon is a silver flute, and the moon cake is the moon painted in the sky. Reflected in the eyes. Tonight's teenager, standing by the old well, heard his mother say: the moon is a golden pulley, and the moon cake is the moon that falls at the bottom of the well. Put your mouth in your heart. As a young man, I left my hometown with frivolous ambitions. My mother said: When you are homesick, take a flute and play a moonlight song in your hometown. Tonight, the moonlight is like China, and the years are like China. I held the stars and the moon in my mother's hand, and her mother said, son, drink your hometown and come to your heart. Oh, this is a bowl of water in that old well. Homesickness (prose poem) Christmas flowers are as red as blood, and the air in the city thousands of miles away becomes cold. In the morning, my mother's phone call and a few words of exhortation were old and warm, warming the frozen memory. The city is bustling and empty, full of vain happiness, but I am barren everywhere, looking for a strange sense of familiarity. When your hand reached out, there were levels of pain and weakness I endured. You said it was time to go home. Although it is bustling and noisy, it never belongs to us. The local accent curled up and tears flowed from my eyes. No one wants to be like a wandering soul in a foreign land, which makes us miss our home so much. It is becoming more and more barren and decadent, like the sigh and tears of the old man. We are also high-spirited and arrogant. But there is always an innate wound in my heart, which hurts when I touch it. Sadly, we grew up in the same land under the same blue sky, but that land has both advantages and disadvantages. There is a pure sunny heart with a faint blue color. There is a pure happiness that supports the fatigue day after day. Maybe everything will change when we grow up. If we see more clutches, our hearts will be as hard as iron. However, in the dark, silent, inch by inch, peeling off are missing bodies. The path in front of the door, the bamboo forest behind the house. The early cock crows and the farmers go home at sunset. The playmate next door, the boy at the same table. And ignorant and shy love. Some things, after passing, leave traces and become years and memories. Although there is a little pain, it will be ignored occasionally, but it will never be forgotten. Some emotions, like the simple feelings of teenagers, will show a faint blue color after experiencing a disaster. Your sadness lurks in the mottled shadow of the old house, and the grass is already sad all around. The young face reflected in the pond is naive and happy. Now our hearts have flown too far. I was disconnected. Inch by inch, you said that even if life is evergreen, there will always be a day when leaves will take root. On the way home. We are together. There are many holy monks under the tree, and each flower is a Buddha. Time has no shadow, water is silent and a leaf is wasted. Attention! ! ! ! ! It's modern poetry. Attention! ! ! ! ! It is a nostalgia for modern poetry. Zhang Hou's memory of Yu Guangzhong's childhood is a small stamp. I miss my relatives here: