They gave me a wooden shovel.
Dig the beach.
Find the court card
One by one;
Lift it, cover it,
It's finished now;
Shake the table!
That's the fun.
I didn't dig it out of the ground
Or pick it from the tree;
The weak insect succeeded.
In the stormy waves.
I didn't dig underground,
It was not picked from the tree;
This is the ocean package of the storm.
Made up of weak insects.
The sound of violets by the roadside,
Without causing a careless glance,
Whispering in these rambling poems.
The whispers of violets
Failing to attract the casual eyes of passers-by
Whispering alone between scattered lines of poetry
In the dark cave of sleepy mind
Dream of building a nest with debris
Fall from a caravan during the day
In this sleepy, gloomy heart
Dream of picking up the fragments left by the walkers in the scorching sun.
Casting heaven
Spreading petals in spring
Not for the fruits of the future,
But because of a whim
Sprinkle petals in spring
Not for the fruit of autumn.
But the fantasy of this moment.