Poetry symbolizing the eternity of things.

Eternal things and feelings-once again dedicated to the poet Zimmer (1) You are the creator. Eternal things are the road to language. You soon realize the scream on the lonely pen tip. Mature thinking is like a waterfall, and beautiful structure is pearls. (2) Although the enthusiasm of rain and wind does not change, the hard chill on the surface is gradually brushed away. Although it has not been exported, it is like a god. (3) The sky is out of control because of your poems. My heart has been infatuated with you for a long time. My chest continues the pulse and cherishes the blood. (4) With the warp and weft of those characters, I proudly weave your solid coat from a sunny window. Look up to the sublime harvest sunshine, rain and dew, sing and even avoid hail poems, your religious poems, your pride, your arms crossed, your thoughts curled up, and then race together in spring. (5) The sun runs fast and the clock swings. Disappointment will bury you, but you won't run away with tears, refuse the superficial favor and give up your meager care. What kind of injuries have you suffered? But I looked up and you stood up straight. You just refuse to give in to the arbitrary arrangement of the years. Today, you are your all-powerful master. You are still alive, which is the direction I have been looking forward to for a long time. (6) You express your sincerity and brush away the pain. You closed the god of palpitation and opened the door to happiness. Now you are an outstanding poet and a capitalized woman. (7) Shake off the light inside and press the flash of years. You come from heaven and have a simple wish. It is easy for you to touch another person's heart invisibly. A flower belongs to. Her time is to find a light that belongs to his object. (8) Your words are wrapped in bright flames, and thousands of emotions point to enlightenment on the horizon. You graze thousands of figures and countless hearts at the same time, and your words become the faithful lace of the four seasons. What can you say? (9) You are a warm thousand Buddha, you are an ancient celadon glazed poem on the left, holding your heart, you are on the right, holding his hand and singing a cantata, and the years are all white. (10) Never-ending inspiration is boiling. You cherish the past deeply, making the heat bloom, the moon or the sun wearing the glory of warriors, picking clouds, a basket of tailors, Luo Shang, unparalleled. (1 1) Recruit a group of little angels to build a new world. Dew, grain, rape dike, cliff, light smoke. (12) The sound of red and white camellia in February is bustling and boundless. Are your cheeks still red? Is it a peach blossom that blooms in late April? (13) I will dig out all disturbing music, unclean smiles and lascivious nerves at the same time, so that my bones will forget the shape and my thoughts will wander for nine days, leaving only the sensitive hearing and quiet spring in your words. (14) You are a green hill, and you are a mysterious altar. The frustration that I can't fly finally crossed the real hesitation and came to your place. Smoke clouds are lingering, fairy shadows are forgotten, and words are flying. (15) The expensive red porcelain in your heart is actually broken, and it is easy to be comforted. On the path, a little pink will make you intoxicated. (16) You hold your head high in the blood-stained sky, you look down at the pale earth, and you stand up trembling spirituality. Yesterday, flowers bloomed, birds sang and insects sang. You care, you are passionate, and you are in love with today's sunshine. What you believe in should be the star and the moon, which pursues and highlights the quiet and warm scene of recalling the past, writes moist tenderness and scenery into your eyes, and the years surround your heart (18). Faced with the surprise of many eyes, you carefully hold out meticulous painting, and ordinary days sublimate in your thorough eyes. Your keyboard is building fairy-tale words. You are a lotus coming from the waves. My meditation stumbled from the peak. The peach blossoms in March are about to blush. Our conversation life sweetly shows white baby teeth. (XIX) We met by chance in QQ in the middle of the night. You start blinking. Overflowing sleepiness is covered by the thick green clothes in the town. How many people flock to the city this season to let the noise fall asleep? Raise your eyes in your dream, the polluted air is listening attentively, lonely people crowd you to look up at the sky, the sunset is round, you plant spring in the soil, play with clouds in rape flowers and feel the happiness of bees in the sunset, and you write a faint legend in the frog sound (20). You tap on the keyboard with your hand, draw pictures on the earth, and then jump on the branches in spring while drawing the sky. Finally, you slowly sublimate.