You
Wen Ri Weiyang.
Daybreak. It rained in the sky.
I think of you again.
That time, close to the window. Listen to you.
Explain to the children what rainbows look like.
Formative. It turned out that "Qingxiao".
Can be used here. That time in the pavilion.
Stood for a long time. A lotus pink dress.
Float down from the green car. Brushed it up.
Forehead hair. Smell the white orchids picked the day before
I silently recited Xu Zhimo's poems.
The most is the gentle ...... that bows his head
Memory, verdant and vast.
In a lifetime, meet people.
What has happened is not a matter of words.
Too soon, it's too late.
Words
Wen Ri Weiyang.
The cold wind brings autumn out.
*Waiting for redemption in the coming year.
Turtledove, stepping on the front windshield.
Footprints. The language of metaphor is snowy.
Cover. Pour a glass of pure grain wine.
The moon, followed by the part of the Eve.
Hearken. One day, it's in use.
The cane became a relic. An unpaid copy.
A collection of poems, let the snow carry.
Burial. Half
Wen Ri Weiyang.
Most of the disasters occurred at night.
Usually. For example, the ground sinks violently.
The fire burst red signboard, the ladder. Turbidity.
Overflow the willow embankment. Fortunately, there is.
Half of the things are secretly progressing beautifully.
For example, bamboo shoots that are planted in the soil. A plum tree.
Opened a few flowers. snow, rush to weave cotton gauze.
Overnight. Bruises the layers of the earthly world.
Washing, wrapping.
etc
Wen Ri Weiyang.
Snow in light snow. Just say it.
In my city, I took a turn.
I know that "rush" is not what it is.
Original idea. Like, someone.
From our lives, without saying goodbye.
Looking through the south window. One edition.
Rectangular snow. That's the old municipal party committee.
The roof of an office building. Thinking of the riverside.
Nest. Freshly painted overnight.
Auxiliary Road. Someone is working. Lots of snow.
It is treated as garbage and is put in the yard. When the tree is bent.
I want to cry out that it hurts. But to the wind, he opened his mouth.
With my hands in my pockets, I've been.
Stood for a while. Those who had a flash of inspiration.
The words are like this fluttering snow.
Cover the cool and walk alone between the lines.
Words that don't reach the meaning of the word, all.
Melt and melt.
It doesn't matter. There are many poets today.
Wishes, like spring.
On the way to come. Never.
I wasn't waiting for a snowfall, but.
The one who doesn't make a noise in the bottom of my heart.
Read the Sleep Poet Shooting.
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.