mother
Once, maternal love was a kind of crying.
She's in the delivery bed.
I'm on my arm.
Later, maternal love became a delicacy on the table.
She is by the stove.
I'm at the dining table.
Then maternal love is a schoolbag.
She is in the factory.
I'm in class
Motherly love is a hidden worry now.
When she was old,
After I work,
Motherly love is a kind of indifference in the future.
She is smiling.
I am in her eyes.
A poem dedicated to mother
This is your flesh and blood.
Condensed my petite body.
Is your milk sweet?
Watered my soul
My little happiness
All spent in your love.
My fond memories.
Is to play on your shoulders and knees.
When I grow up,
mother
The black hair that you once floated on the tip of your child's nose.
But like autumn leaves.
Slowly falling apart
Your hand brushed your chubby smile.
But like a dead tree skin in late autumn
Deep wrinkles crawled on your face.
Witness the vicissitudes of your parenting.
It also tells about your miracle.
I want to write a poem for you.
Only to find that I have exhausted my words.
But I can't find a word to represent your achievements.
I want to sing a song for you.
Only to find that there is no melody.
Can express the miracle created by your life.
Dear mother
Your ordinary and great.
No one can comment.
Because no one.
Will desecrate your friendship
You are like the sea.
Inclusive for my son.
You are like the land.
Yi Xi supports the growth of children.
Love is speechless
True love without regret
You've been translating all your life.
Motherly love is like a mountain.
village entrance
Mother is standing.
Look into the distance
wait for
arterial highway
wriggle
I'm at this end
Mom is over there.
Dong
For decades.
Mother's black hair
Sprinkle with snowflakes
Only that stance.
the same as before
Between the earth and the moon
Accompanied by the wind
It's raining.
Practice the divine comedy of the heart and sea
I don't know the next return date.
How long will it last?
Every time I dream
My soul
Sobbing with trembling.
In the long night
be lost in thought
punch-drunk
perhaps
be doomed
All children
Negative sky
Negative grounding
perhaps
always
The efforts of all mothers
Like running water
Mother is a mountain.
I am a grass in the mountains.
Suck her milk.
I found the cradle of life.
Climb on her shoulder.
I can see farther.
Mother is the ocean.
I am a boat in the sea.
With her help.
I sailed to the port where I was traveling.
Throw yourself into her arms.
I got the source of strength.
Mother is a sky.
I am a cloud in the sky.
Snuggle up to her eyes
I swim and flip in the air.
I jokingly covered her peeping.
I just know that her love has already turned into thick raindrops.
Mother is a tree.
I am a leaf on the tree.
Close to her arm.
I opened my green smiling face.
Look down at her carefully
Before I knew it, I had bent her waist.
Mother is a book.
I am a punctuation mark in the book.
Follow her train of thought
I show the brilliance of words.
Immerse yourself between the lines
I see, every word is full of difficulties.
Mother is a dream.
I often call in my dreams.
The morning light painted the dream as a photo and hung it on the wall.
I still feel warm all over.
Although missing can penetrate the solidification time of loess
I still don't want to disturb her sleep.
Ah, mom.
Language brochette tears brochette
Hua Song is a silent wish.
Tiantang lane
You will always be surrounded by flowers and sunshine.
Ah, mom.
A poem praising mother
-Shu Ting
Your pale fingertips touch my temple,
I can't help acting like a child.
Hold on to your skirt.
Ah, mom,
In order to keep your aging figure,
Although the morning light cuts dreams into smoke,
I still dare not open my eyes for a long time.
I still cherish that bright red scarf,
Afraid that cleaning will make it
Lose your unique warmth.
Ah, mom,
Isn't the running water of the years just as ruthless?
I'm afraid my memory will disappear,
How dare I open its screen easily?
I cried out to you for a thorn,
Now that I'm wearing a police uniform, I dare not,
I dare not moan.
Ah, mom,
I often look up at your photos sadly,
Even if the call can penetrate the loess,
How dare I disturb your sleep?
I dare not show the gift of love like this,
Although I have written many songs.
For flowers, for the sea, for the dawn.
Ah, mom,
My sweet, soft and deep memory,
Not rapids, not waterfalls,
It is an ancient well that can't sing among flowers and trees.
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