The poem "Warm"

"Warmth" Who let me silently interpret the bleak Shan Ye in winter with a soft heart? The gray and yellow lines separate my eyes. I can't read the silence of wormwood, nor can I understand the lonely sigh of the north wind. The desolate and frozen mountain village is calling who is calling us. We haven't forgotten the bare red toes in the little cotton boots, the deep wrinkles wrapped in the thick scarf, the cracks in the blank wall of the old house, and the snow that can't be wiped away in front of the door. We stand up in the name of conscience. Take in the name of people, not talking about sunshine, not talking about hope and spring, not talking about sowing and harvesting. We just reach out our hands and gently transfer our heat. If there is a rhythm that revolves around the earth, it is love and warmth.