Lonely tears
Deep sadness makes me
be heartbroken
Language at this time
So barren
sterile
Makes me speechless
only
Listening silently, tears fell.
Silent beating
The ground lamented.
Silently heard, tears streaming down her face.
be unresolved/unsettled
Give off a sour smell.
That sound, that smell
I was on pins and needles.
As if I saw it
The old man walked slowly.
In the wind and rain, in the hot sun
make a living
In order to pick up one
Abandoned mineral water bottle
The appearance of irregular movement.
Cross the traffic flow
A vicious face
With pale sweat
Modern Old Poetry 2 A Pedal Tricycle
Some simple vegetables
An old man with thick hair.
Yelling at the gate of the park
Start a new day full of hope.
One leek at a time
How many crows are there?
And the light of the stars
Dewy
Fragrant, crowded
A laundry list, root
Comfortable ground
Confess to people
This is not greed.
Is to keep
Every drop of fragrance
Radish after radish.
And the moon, in
In the same basin
Bath, water
Skin, let the morning light
Put on pink yarn, carcass
More and more delicate and charming
also
Pepper, tomato, cabbage
Let this morning
Assemble in the carriage
At different times
Different areas
Different quantities
The same thin shoulders
And uneven moonlight
Cloudy eyes
Glow in search
A tired face
Save the best smile
A hoarse voice
Imitate shouting
Rough hand
Trembling with endless hope
Chinese chives
Pick it up from the ground.
A vegetable leaf
Take back the carriage
It belongs to the chickens and ducks at home.
breakfast
or ...
Modern Poetry of Old 3 When snowflakes are dancing,
I am an old child.
I can draw the curtains halfway,
There are some small cracks in the side window,
Show a cane chair,
Subtle, detached, all good.
When I think of an imperfect scene, it snows,
Half of them are rooted in dead soil.
At this time, the snow was scattered all over the floor. Pale and steady.
I said it was not perfect,
Because snow is as thin as a wisp.
I am an old child,
Although I haven't seen herringbone geese yet,
But I also want to fly into the snow-resistant bird where I live.
When the long-lost snow drifts into eternity in the mirror.
I am a young old man.
When I chased it,
White clouds run in front of me,
Geese and I met by accident,
Leave a message in my ear when I sleep.
I had no dreams for a night, but because of an old acquaintance, I hovered in the air for a while and reached the corner of the world.
I had a dream, but I didn't realize it was a dream at all.
As if just a moment ago.
I still cover the falling snow with fragrant grass. But I can't touch it.
I still dye it in the feathers left by migratory birds. I am willing to weave a pair of wings for myself and be a bird that knows how to choose time to fly. But I can't pick it up.
I observe, observe.
Look at my hand and touch my head. It can be very real, and some things I want to leave have not slipped away.
I am a young old man.
I will leave snowflakes on my temples and skip many steps. Back to my original dream.
Sometimes, I feel so small looking at Cang Ma.
Sometimes, I think I beat it. I'm so old.
Modern Poetry of the Old Man 4 There is an old man sitting under the bridge.
A few are in the small basin in front of you.
Money from Cape Mao Mao.
The wrinkles on his face.
And cloudy eyes
Much like my father.
What he looked like before he died.
I took out my bag.
All small change
I really want to call my father.
I turned around.
Tears are like broken beads.
It hurts deeply.
Dad, your pain and suffering
I can only share so much.
Dad, is there a heaven in the sky?
Are you okay in heaven?
However, we must consider how we should move forward.
It is not enough just to feel, think and exercise.
It is not enough for your body to face the danger of shooting from the old loophole.
When molten lead and boiling oil drop on the wall.
However, we must consider where we are going.
This is not like our pain or the direction our hungry children will have;
It's not like a soldier's pillow in a temporary hospital.
The direction indicated by a whisper caused by flashing blue light;
But on the other hand, maybe I should say-it's like a long river that originates from the great lakes in the depths of Africa.
He used to be a god, but later he became a road, a giver, a judge and a delta.
It is always different, as ancient scholars taught,
However, it will always be the same body, the same class, the same miracle and the same direction.
I just want to say that I just want this gift.
Because we even put too much music in our song, so that it is slowly sinking.
Because we have decorated our art so much that the gilded words have swallowed up its true meaning.
It's time to say a few words about ourselves, because tomorrow our souls will sail.
If pain is the fate of mankind, we are not asking people to endure it.
That's why I'm often there these days, Okawa.
Thinking about this, marching in the middle of the grass.
Walking among animals, swallowing young grass to quench thirst, marching among people who sow and harvest grain.
Even marching between the magnificent tomb and the simple burial place of the dead.
The river swims, almost like human blood.
Similar to human eyes. When they look forward, there is no fear in their hearts.
There are no trivial troubles in life, even important ones;
When they look ahead, just like travelers who are used to relying on the stars to tell their directions,
Unlike us, we stared at the closed garden the other day, and there was a sleeping Arab house inside.
The desolate little garden behind the pane has changed shape, becoming bigger and smaller,
When we watch, we also change our desires and the shape of our hearts.
We are a hard dough in the midday sun, belonging to the world that drives us out and shapes us.
Constrained by a net of life that can be decorated, that life was once real, and then turned into dust and sank into the sand.
Only the slight shaking of a tall palm tree made us dizzy.
Modern Old Poetry 6 Sunset at dusk,
The sunset glow is still red,
Rolling shadows,
Blood yang depends on the west.
She, an old man,
Lose the vision clarified yesterday,
Watching the sunset still set in the west,
Staring so affectionately.
She, an old man,
With silver hair,
Lose your elastic fingers,
So old.
She, an old man,
Although these steps are somewhat staggered,
But without losing the past,
Such a healthy body.
She stared at the sunset in the western sky,
From her eyes,
I seem to see her hometown,
Maybe she's deeply attached,
Where she grew up.
In her old age,
From her silver hair,
I really saw her expectations,
Maybe she deeply hopes,
That relative can be safe and happy.
Her healthy body,
Judging from her expression,
I vaguely saw her worry,
Maybe her deepest desire,
His grandson has a family and a career.
She, an old man,
She, my grandmother,
An unforgettable shadow in my heart,
An unforgettable person in my life.
Like ... hope ...
Live a hundred years.
Modern poetry of the elderly 7- in the whole sunset
Every word or phrase
On white paper
The carbon color of pencil characters is deep and light.
Like a broken bead.
Slowly strung together by vague ideas
Wake up like a lake in winter.
Greening the grassland on the lakeshore again.
Generations have coveted the warmth of spring.
Once bloomed in your smiling eyes.
Broke the wandering of the clear sky
only
What should I do?
How to hint to you
Beneath this ancient appearance
What about the volcanic heart?
in fact
I was so beautiful.
As bright as a star in a little girl's eyes
Just wandering for a long time
All the tears are long gone.
All the stories have forgotten the beginning.
I envy that brave girl.
Young face basking in the sun.
Strong love is sweet.
I am greedy for seduced prostitutes.
charming
But it can capture people's souls.
I am as greedy as a dying old man.
I have no courage to express my love.
Only at sunset
One dry word after another
Piece together a lame poem
Quietly groping for how to
Track your eyes over and over again
Imagine it staring at me.
This is also the case.