Ask for some poems about sunflowers,

Do you see the sunflowers in the sun? Do you see the sunflowers in the sun? Look at it. Instead of lowering its head, it turned its head back, as if to bite the rope held by the sun around its neck. Did you get a look at him? Did you see that sunflower with its head held high and glaring at the sun? Its head almost covers the sun, and it shines even when there is no sun? Have you seen sunflowers? You should get close to it. If you go near it, you will find that every time you catch one, the soil under its feet will definitely bleed. (2) Sunflowers-Sunflowers commemorating Van Gogh's rain. The sprayed petals are hidden in the rain for an inch, and the heart is hidden under four drops of water. Look at Van Gogh's dead sunflower. This is his lost ear. His head got stuck in the sunflower garden. In the middle of the sun, it has vertical light on the soil. Van Gogh, you are also a sunflower, and the new rain is as good as ever. Van Gogh spilled golden flames and blood, and put his hands in the four fields of sunflower. Van Gogh bled on the ground, just like the scorching sun burning in the sky and the rain burning on the water. Van Gogh was buried underground. On the ground, I felt it was Van Gogh: the puddle had dried up, and the sunflower was in full bloom, like a burning butterfly on a cobalt-blue earthen basin. Sunflower: the comeback of language is to pray for sunflowers. The flowers of civilians blindfolded me and burned like four closed wooden doors. Where are the unopened sunflowers? Sunflower, you make my earth so uneasy, like a mysterious star. There is a bright yellow fireball on the battlefield, and the cage cover is tilted, which is unknown in the milk of the earth. Burned sunflower1987.12.12-16 (3) When the sun went down, the sunflower was covered with golden clouds. They were scorched by the dying call of the sun, and their edges were black and red, like sunflowers in an insane asylum. I walked back and forth in front of this sunflower, and the blank paper with no purpose was broken in my hand. Because of these questioning eyes, I raised my metal feet and stepped on the sound of longing for breaking, breaking the suffocating clouds. At this moment, I need some cold snowflakes to float down and stick to my hot heart, which will be like a glass window covered with beautiful frost flowers in the early morning of winter. At this time, I hope someone in the room had better wake up, turn around quietly and touch water and food. They will forget the sunflowers and the burning backs in summer.