Autumn breeze side view
Scheming is trapped in the scheming city.
All framed cutscenes and biographies.
The most untrustworthy thing is yourself.
The spring breeze crosses the shore, and the willows are still clinging.
A few fake sprigs of folded willow are inserted into the net bottle.
The words of theft are like trains.
Running through the four seasons of the castle walls.
The river surrounds the city and gets drunk in lies.
The war outside the city is still being fought in words.
The beacon fire in the city burned through Lishan.
Laughing at the masquerade's praise, consuming a lot of dry bones.
The remnant sun is like a mirror, illuminating the surface of the blood-colored lake.
Autumn scenery, in a bleak landscape.
Afraid of one's own shadow. Holidays
Get out of your footprint.
I've used it for many years.
Entered abruptly.
Ran away and panicked.
Such an embarrassing theft in the choice of words.
Coping with superficial inspiration and imagery.
Always embrace the sea and harvest the wheat.
With a clay pot on his head, he whips his horse across the river.
Salt steals tears, planting flags and digging holes to open mines.
The earth has always been so deep.
As invaluable as my heart.
In fact, Hao Miao is broad, and there is no need to pretend.
Walking in the world, eating the immortals.
It should be light and supple and not so hard.
The water law is natural, take a holiday.
Let your feet lead your brain to where it needs to go.
Like hell, or heaven.
South Journey
Look for the path in your memory.
A group of teenagers walk through a green wheat field.
The footprints are like dreams, up and down.
Step out of the yellow bare veins.
Half an hour round trip, early morning and dusk.
The wheat straw stack watches the bell for the end of class.
The childhood sun hides in the shadows of the trees and listens to the cicadas.
The old well next to the village has long been drained by nostalgia.
The depths of the earth are pitch black and blind.
The countryside sent their children out to be educated, but they couldn't even get them back."
The southern journey, the name of the place where my fate begins and ends.
Now I want to hide away from my safety.
The wheat field became the home of the flooded paths.
I sing with affection and look forward to our long absence.
Able to claim each other in strangers.
Tears took a step forward, shattered and full of sorrow.
The bones burned greener and greener in the flames.
Daze, who is desolate at heart, has no boat to moor.
One day, I will be burned to the ground.
The body and soul that watched themselves return to the earth.
Then it was buried inch by inch by the night.
As at that time, step by step away from the original.
Nancheng, can you contain my wanderings?
Let the old man take refuge in peace in a quiet village.
Author:Lan Bing, currently living in Xi'an, is a doctor and a member of the Sleep Poetry Society. I love to write poems, I want to be washed by the heavy rain, and I want to kiss the dripping lily of the valley in the poem.
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.