Poems about Jing Ya. Poems about Jing Ya
I made an agreement with myself to take my place, or to accompany me to the back of the building and the back of the mountain to find a flawless horizon and send a letter about the future. It is written on blue paper with a red pen, thinking of an indelible dream and reaching a distant and unknown tomorrow. This process must be rejected by darkness. Or allow me to set sail on an ancient and distant ship on a sleepless night and wake up to meet the first glory of the sunrise. It was the light that melted everything, melting me and the boat into a gradually shallow fantasy of nourishing the stamens with ice blue. When I come the next night, I will be released and rejected. Or invite me to the depths of the sky, the depths of the light, meditate in a calm incense burner, and put all the morning mist about the past. The air condensed with tears once floated into the girl's heart to urge a epiphyllum to bloom. Everything is beautiful in an instant, and I have been recalled countless times in the past gusts. My meditation has nothing to do with sadness. From my feet to the end of the universe, how many people and animals are similar to my breath, and how much dust is shouting: "Come on, the world will not perish with me!" " I really followed with the unique light of my hometown. My eyes crossed the buildings, all the obstacles and hills. How many living and lost subtle sparks collided with my exploring eyes, "Stay and watch the growth of the flame!" I really hesitate to think about the decadent sun. I have withdrawn my eyes. I have been to the jar in the market, and the distance there is very chaotic. Magnets attract rivet leaves and betray fruits. I dare not know a cat that has climbed over the wall. It should also have a sad past similar to its shining eyes. I've been to a corner of the North River, which has opened its shell and exiled itself. I have set foot on the forehead of sunset glow, waiting for the moon. I dare not approach a heart buried in the sand. I should have witnessed a cold crow passing through his world. My meditation has nothing to do with sadness. You can definitely go up from the spire. I feel that I am getting mellow on the balcony until I become the sunrise that creates the dawn. Let's endure the night wind first. By the way, I will rise slowly with deeper and deeper dreams. I'll check the building. You must feel that you are gradually becoming clear from the morning fog until you are covered by a bright yellow that turns from blue. Touch your muddy face first, and then forget your shallow sadness like breathing. Let the warm sunset soothe the pain of the rocking chair. Let the warm sunset soothe a rocking chair. I saw the wounded angel and something you don't know yet. I have to get its pure blood empty-handed, so that I can be worthy of the rosy face that is still aging in the smiling rocking chair. You throw the cold back on the innocent cloud. I know he can't fly, and I don't want him to land in my wildflower field. You chose the river that will only die. I just watched from a distance the track he crossed and the ripples he splashed violently. I wanted to use a pen to concentrate on living between reality and dreams, but I didn't. It will stir up a whirlpool that engulfs everything, and I will concentrate on building an abstract castle. I will see reality and dreams in every window. I will see a group of unrestrained goats in a place where I can only accommodate myself. That is the grassland I gave up, and it is also the dream of every grass I kissed. But all I need is a corner and the width of a wardrobe. When you leave, please bring a flower to explain, even if its opening is not the dawn you want. When you are lonely, please put it by the window. Will it cover you with night? I want to show people's tears Let the warm sunset soothe the pain of the rocking chair. I accompany lonely angels and things you still don't understand. I must clearly do what it asks me to do and enjoy the fruits worthy of sharing outside of freedom. Unfortunately, the world has long been divided into two poems. Be my shadow. How were you born? How many pairs of loving hands have washed away the amniotic fluid from your mother's body for you? Your crying is the music they want to hear most, with a yellow straw, but you are the most precious and precious young man of that era. Let you stumble into the morning sun, whose jogging has your strong rhythm, but when a girl no longer likes flowered skirts like vagrants, she is infatuated with the fragrance of wine. You are like a child who lost his voice at night, afraid that sudden noise will disturb menstruation's nightmare, and you will never get to the morning. Don't make me the object of your complaint. Do you know that I hate time, too, because it stops the flow of the heart, makes the morning light stop jogging like a young man, and your crying will break into incomprehensible waves under its rhythm. Are you the stone of history? If that's the case, why didn't anyone take pains to light the shadowless lamp of surgery for you, and let me or my soon-to-be-dispersed soul go into a numb sleep, waiting to forget you when I wake up? I still remember you, from the glory when you were born to the abandoned you now. It became a smoke ring of the night watchman, sometimes trapping my rambling thoughts, and sometimes hiding on the owl's beak. I just don't expect a glimmer of gaze and understanding in your eyes. Let me hold your cold hand. Believe me, I won't take you to the cliff and become my shadow. Say a word to other souls who travel because of you, and there will be a stable candle to guide them to find your clear reflection in the concave and convex of fossils. The black angel and her cat. My chisel is ready. Carve the heart into a brown castle, where a black angel and her anchor live. They come from an abandoned barn in the field and can't see the elegance of a flower. I will plant a lotus smile for them to meet their numb eyes and light steps. They will melt their dreams into the hearts of flowers. Is to pray for prosperity in summer. Their unknown love and desire are hidden in the withering and aging of every inch of grass. They just said to the world: we don't need anything, just quietly appreciate a touch of color in afternoon tea. Time flies from the sky. In this poem, you are only good to yourself. Give yourself a rainbow beyond fairy tales. Facing the gloomy sky, don't be so afraid of love. Lotus is not afraid of wind and rain. I am her sister. Let her hair flutter in the changeable summer. Give yourself some quiet sand. Facing the unstoppable time, the hourglass will be sad. Turn fate into trembling on parallel lines. I am its owner. Bury yourself in the time of precipitation and talk to yourself. Say a poem to the dim shadow. In the blue sky, the clouds are homesick, but not all directions are acceptable. Let's talk about a relationship with yourself. Facing the embarrassment of monologue, think of the sunflower sun standing alone in rainy days. It is the lover of all things, and the love of all things is not as good as a flower that follows the soul. I am not a slave to any tangible object.