Bing Xin's prose and poetry are both morbid poets: morbid poets (1)
The poet is ill.
Poet's mood
More suitable for poetry,
But poets can't write.
The shadow of chrysanthemum is on the ground,
There is the sun on the back of the rattan chair.
I left my book on the floor,
Don't want to pick it up,
Let it drift with the wind.
The window is open,
The curtain was awkward,
People are bored,
Only:
This book is old,
Flowers are new.
According to the Mirror,
This is a thin pang;
Hold it in your hand,
This is a heavy pen.
Concentrated poetry,
But it's fresh;
A haggard poet,
But I feel happy.
The poet is ill.
Poet's mood
More suitable for poetry,
But the poet can't write it!
Bing Xin's prose and poetry are both sick poets: sick poets (2)
The poet is ill.
Blame the sky outside the window,
Why so gloomy!
Heaven is like a poet,
It's just too dark and depressing.
General:
Before this poem was written,
Snow brewing is not over yet.
Dead branches outside the wall,
Smoke from the stove on the house,
With the faint sound of the city,
How long did it take?
The poet is ill.
But blame the sky outside his window
Why so gloomy!
Bing Xin's prose and poetry are both sick poets: sick poets (3)
The poet is ill.
Thanks to the sick goddess,
For him and the pen and paper of the trapped people,
Cut off meaningless love.
bedside
A short man,
Red flowers,
And songs,
Around the soul for a few days.
Long days are like years,
Li Yanjing
Listen to Ye Er outside the window.
Recite a few words in a low voice:
Deep courtyard?
Who is blowing it like a hairspring?
Who sings like running water again?
Stand up gently
Open the curtains,
Put it in silence.
It's just the flute,
Very poetic,
Nabi threw it away,
The paper was thrown away,
Listen.
It's just a voice,
How to fill the blank?
Thanks to the sick goddess,
Paper and pencils for him and others,
Cut off meaningless love.