Watching the sky
I believe that the sky is a mirror of the earth.
Everything has a place in the sky.
The cloud is the accumulation of images.
Angry people, pressed in the depths of the black clouds, brewing a lightning strike.
I believe that snow-capped mountains and trees are messengers of heaven and earth.
The snow-capped mountains are full of silver threads, telling the trivialities of the world.
The trees tremble and swish, conveying the coolness of the sky.
I wonder what God is doing on the mist-shrouded mountain.
And those withered and orderly canopies, there are always some.
The slightest movement is all inquisitive.
I believe that the sky is the common destination of the two worlds, yin and yang.
The dead will cast a figure in the sky.
Once I lay on the ground and looked at the clouds, and I saw it clearly.
The two clouds quickly approached and merged, followed by raindrops.
They resemble me and my dead mother.
Become a wizard
According to the color of the soul, choose the colored paper.
Chalk paper, hide the affair.
Blue paper, sustenance dreams.
Blank paper, recalling the souls of the dead.
Black paper, killing people and goods.
I have the best of both when the sheep and the wolf are trapped together.
Hostility is gone.
Sharp and sharp, like a sharp blade.
Ink, that's the scar.
Cut down the thorns under your feet like cutting down trees.
Carved the same, chiseled inner blocks.
Under the sun, I was timid and fearful, and kept the testimonies.
The edges and corners are invisible, and the claws are hidden in the dark corners.
After midnight, become a wizard.
A candle flame and a few pieces of colored paper are waved on it.
or dance, or recital, possessed by God.
Harnessing words is like driving elves.
Doing it all night, and when Wencheng is completed, I am still a mediocre old man.
Recognize the wind as a parent
Clenched fists, palms treasured some treasures.
When the night is quiet enough, raise your fist and listen.
There is the sound of the wind whistling in the palm of your hand.
The mountains where I have stayed all my life have given me a storm.
The wind, starting in the mountains, ending in the mountains, swirling in the mountains.
I and the wind both have a throat that is good at roaring.
The accumulation of mountains depends on our spokes.
My ancestors were trapped in the mountains.
The mountain wind ruffled their long hair like torn flags.
I struggled, clutching the tentacles of the whirlwind.
Pluck your feet out of the dirt.
Qilian Mountain, Tianshan Mountain, and Yan Mountain, all of them are like wandering.
I'm always with the wind.
Hike in a tailwind and rise in a headwind.
I'm willing to admit the wind as a parent.
Whether it is chanting and singing, or roaring violently, it is a country sound.
Motherhood
No matter how cold it gets, magpies will perch on the branches for the winter.
Nest, right around you.
It was a swaddling cloth for children.
Xiaoling spent twenty-eight years building a nest in her body.
Her offspring are already in the nest.
Sometimes I practice my fists and feet, but I don't care about the cold and heat of the world.
In May, magpies carry insects and plunge headlong into the canopy.
Stir up a tumultuous noise.
Just like the evening in the world, there are old and small big families.
There was an old woman in the village, and she had a thin body.
He gave birth to nine children.
I received news of death the day before yesterday, and I asked for details**.
Answer: Uterine cancer.
Author:Ma Weiju, male, from Huining, Gansu Province, lives in Beijing. He is a member of the Chinese Writers Association and the China Railway Writers Association. He has written more than 1,000 poems, some of which have been published in hundreds of publications such as "Poetry Magazine", "Poetry Monthly", "China Railway Literature and Art", "Ginseng Flower", "Green Wind", "Star" and "Selected Poems", and have been selected into a variety of anthologies. Published poetry collections "Gap" and "Deep Snow".
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Face the sea and look for the light with your black eyes. Founded on November 16, 2015, the Poetry Club takes "speaking for grassroots poets" as its mission and promoting the "spirit of poetry" as its purpose, that is, the pursuit of truth, goodness and beauty of poetry, the artistic innovation of poetry, the spiritual pleasure of poetry, and the revelation of poetry to living life.
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