I. Modern Poetry in Autumn and September 1:
In September, the plants stopped growing and their inner castles were built. The white swan is on the lake, lost in the steeple and jungle. The last waltz of cicada was absorbed by the valley covered with vines. The wind comes from the forest, let me judge your life: a peacemaker on the surface and a schizophrenic inside. Once I was chased by a madman and once I was beaten by the rain, I stopped running.
In the pine forest hanging overhead, time stopped and swans began to crow from the fog.
Second, modern poetry in autumn and September 2nd:
The scorching sun in August has not dispersed its blazing light, and the cicadas on the trees have not stopped chirping in summer. But mom, you have to start working hard in the sun again. When the September wind blows the children's inner songs, when a pair of small hands hastily accept summer gifts.
But, mom, before you smooth the wrinkles on your forehead, you start to touch the brilliant flowers in the garden again. September is your holiday, mom, and it is also the beginning of your hard work. When your amiable smile is reflected on the crystal blackboard, please accept my gratitude and respect for you in the past 20 years.
When I think of your clear footsteps on the neat playground, please let me think about your kindness to me in the past 20 years, the gurgling spring water in the river of life. Just like your initial teaching, with the strings at your fingertips, I injected eternity into my heart and dreamed of the little green on the Yuan Ye. As you expected at first, with the brush you gave me, you drew gorgeous pictures in my sky.
September is your festival, and you have left your life's sweat to this educational garden. But mom, you know what? Today, I want to tell you that from the day you taught me to read, my daughter kept a little secret in her heart. I want to be the brightest flower in your carefully watered garden, always glittering and translucent and beautiful!
Third, modern poetry in autumn and September:
For many days, my sadness has been dormant in the branches of September. The wings are transparent and weak, and they are open for fear of being torn by the wind. The wind that brings September rain falls on the face, like short message characters in mobile phones, and never reveals the truth.
It's not strange that it rains, but the thinking in today's world is strange. The happiness of knife carving is written in it, like printmaking, which makes the space open. The flowers blooming in the body, the scenery separated in the Tao and the brightness of light determine the essence of things. As sadness approaches the truth, the law of time cancels a game of chess.
Start over. Addition will certainly promote the perfection of the world, but multiplication will make the two worlds pass by.
If you want to be sad, just tell me! Only once a day, there is no cycle in life, and tears can't become beautiful snow. There is only one mystery between you and me, and no one can guess the answer.