In fact, only the earth itself will never die. Centenarians still love insects, and the Millennium spruce has been listening. And one winter and one summer, two spring and autumn, only the sound remains the same, so the bug has passed away. The immortality of human poetry is the perfect embodiment of falsehood, and the immortality of natural poetry is the belief of fighting death! Every poem of Guo er tells the earth that there are endless descendants. Come back! Every queque song tells the sky that it is snowy in winter and cold in winter, and I am here! Poetry reverberates in the four seasons, and you know it and I know it. Taking this poem as your own, which is not supported by heaven, is also a treasure belonging to heaven. The sky responded to the earth with blizzard: shameless! You and I watched the battle, recalled the ecstasy of recognizing snow as sugar in childhood, and clearly told other ecstatic people with another sense: it was just a little sweet. Today, we are too sweet to eat. Are we mature? Or closer to the message of death? Insects sing poetry not because I think therefore I am, but because I think therefore I am. Just like the relative eternity of the earth, it gives poetry that comes back from the dead an illusion that will never die. Everything can actually write poetry, and the earth is nothing to be surprised about. And an idiot poet in the world proudly shows off his writing building blocks and wants to tell us the meaning of life. We should laugh at him, because he gives up on himself: the poetry of the earth is immortal, and it also contains the efforts of you and me all my life!