Reading paves the way for the futureCraftsmanship
and Marina Tsvetaeva.
I write poems about the fall of youth.
Write poems of infidelity)
Written in a long and narrow room.
Rape by poets.
Poems that were fired from the streets by a café.
My apathetic.
No more resentful poems.
A story in itself)
My poems that no one reads.
Just like a story of history.
I lost my pride.
Lost love.
My aristocratic poems).
She will eventually be married by the peasants.
She is the ...... of my wasted days
That's a boulder we can't climb
That's a boulder we can't climb
To make it.
We talked about it for six years.
We build it and climb up.
You said it would be about seven years.
It's about eight years away.
A longer period of time.
There was still time to get appendicitis.
The operation lasted ten years.
It's like a knife light. A flash
One story has his entire past
When he opened the windows that looked out to the sea.
Throw it at the sound of 10,000 steel knives clattering.
One story has his entire past
When all the tongues are stretched out to the sound.
And he took back the 10,000 steel knives that sounded the sound.
All the days are squeezed into one day.
As a result, there is one more day in every year.
In the last year, it toppled under a large oak tree.
His memories came from a bullpen with a pillar of smoke in the sky.
Some children on fire are holding hands and singing around kitchen knives.
Before the flame is extinguished.
It's rolling and burning in the trees all the time.
The flames maimed his lungs.
And his eyes are the festival of two hostile cities.
The nostrils are two huge pipes looking up at the night sky.
The woman, shooting wildly at his face with love.
so that there is a gap in his lips.
At a moment, a train on the opposite side of death is about to pass.
and left a morning between his outstretched arms.
I press the head of the sun down.
A silent pistol announced the dawn of the morning.
A morning colder than an empty basin on the ground.
There was the sound of branches breaking in the woods.
A broken bell hammer rests on an old door panel that had been removed from Funeral Street.
One story has his entire past
Death has become a superfluous heartbeat.
When the stars descend on the earth in search of the venom of the viper.
Time, too, rots outside the ticking of the clock.
Mouse, change teeth on the rust spots of the copper coffin.
Fungi, stomping their feet on putrid lichens.
The son of the cricket made needle money on him for a long time.
And **, rip his face on a drum.
His body was full of the glory of death.
It's all, and there's all of his past in one story.
One story has his entire past
A lanky man was resting on a severed tree stump.
For the first time, the sun read his eyes very closely.
Closer the sun sat on his lap.
The sun was smoking between his fingers.
Every night I aim there with a telescope in hand.
Until the moment the sun goes out.
A tree stump rests where he has sit.
It's quieter than a cabbage field in May.
His horses passed by in the early morning.
Death, shattered into a pile of pure glass.
The sun has turned into a thunder rolling on the way home for the mourners.
And the child's delicate feet are walking on the evergreen olive branch.
And my head was swollen like a thousand horses' hooves beating a drum
Compared to a thick scimitar, death is just a grain of sand.
So there is his whole past in one story.
So a thousand years have turned their faces to look at it.
Singing
The singing is the singing that has cut down Bai Yelin.
The silence was like heavy snowfall.
Every white tree remembers my singing.
I heard the song that laid the world to rest.
It was I who asked it to rest in peace.
A strange costume covered in heavy snow.
It was I who stood in the center of silence.
It was as silent as the snow stopped.
Even this pear was silent.
It is my singing that has blinded the stars of the sky.
I'll never be a starlight over the woods again.
Horses
The gray clouds resemble a funeral crowd.
Behind the pasture were the heads of mournful cows.
The lonely stars are all hugging each other.
Like a blizzard.
Suddenly appeared on the grandmother's terrible face.
Oh, the little white mouse playing with his feet.
A wild prince who coughs up blood and gallops in the dark fields.
The last knight of the Old World.
HorsesA headless horse, galloping ......
Spring Dance
Snow shovels flattened winter's forehead.
Tree. I hear your loud voice.
I heard the sound of dripping water, a burst of excitement about the melting of snow:
The sun's rays poured into the fields like baked molten steel.
Its rays of light came from the direction of the giant bird's wings.
Monty python, beating flesh on a pile of pebbles.
The window frame, like the throat of an alcoholic soldier burning.
I heard the noise of the sea on the tin roof.
Ah, the silence. I'm forgetting about your snow-white roof.
I once got a pain from the wind that blew up the snow.
When the field strongly affirms love.
I reject the cry of spring.
Drowned in the mighty current where chestnuts rolled downhill.
I'm afraid of my heart.
I'm shouting: I'm afraid of my heart.
It will be useless because of happiness!
Winter night sky
The four little white mice are the foot of my bed.
Like a basket, I stepped into the night sky.
I walked in the sky on skates.
So transparent, loud.
Winter night sky
It is emptier than the empty field for the accumulation of scrap steel.
Snowflakes, like drunken moths.
Speckled villages.
It's barrels buried in the snow.
Who's going to put your arms around my neck! ”
I hear horses. Muttering as he walked.
"Click" huge scissors began to work.
From a large hole, the stars all got up.
There were waves in the horse's eyes.
Oh, I'm in such a good mood.
It's like stroking down the smooth back of a giant whale.
I'm looking for the city I live in.
I'm looking for my love.
The two anxious bananas on the bicycle pedals.
Let the wood. Stay at the sawmill and live its nightmares.
Let the moon stay on the green Gobi.
Sharpen its sickle and go.
Not necessarily from the East.
I see that the sun is a string of pearls.
The sun is a string of pearls that rises ...... continuously
Tombstones
The dark day of Nordic reading.
Huge ice sweeps the vast sea.
The heart is full of winter scenery.
You need to endure the memory that is so strong.
Listen to the snow strolling majestically on the rooftops.
How many generations of hard work ended in the evening.
The hollow daylight is exchanged with the silence inside the lamp.
On this night, people sympathize with death and mock the cry:
The mind is that weak.
The thinker, is the weaker.
Neat syllables run over the snowy wilderness like crawlers.
Twelve stupid birds, stunned to the ground.
A century of stupid talk was frightened:
A drawing of a field was left outside a piece of paper.
Walk out of the forest in old clothes and use.
The broken field covers the face of shame.
You, the king of a village.
Alone to ask for words from depressed.
Ask for your answer
The road to my father
Sitting on the back of the chair for twelve seasons, all the way.
Swollen my hands look at the wheat fields.
Winter handwriting, growing out of destruction:
Someone shouted in the sky: "Buy the clouds."
All the shadows cast on the ridges! ”
Stern voice, Mother.
mother, walked out of the will.
Covered in heavy snow. Hold down the hut with a climate clasp.
Inside the house, is the famous field:
Barbs with golden eyelashes, a boy kneeling.
Dig up my lover: "You will never die again".
I, just kneeling behind the boy.
Dig my mother: "It's not because I don't love anymore!" ”
Behind me knelt my ancestors.
Together with the young tree that will be made into a chair.
Ascend into the cold space of space.
Weeding. Behind us.
Kneeling on a gloomy planet.
Wear iron shoes to look for signs of birth.
And then he dug the road to his father......
Big trees
See the axe marked with **?
You dwarf trees.
Wearing a little boy's shorts.
Those sounds that emerge from the flowers.
It must have broken your hearts:
Your wounds.
Too neat. ”
You have heard it, so you are afraid.
You are afraid, so you keep waiting.
Waiting for the dream of the tree.
It becomes your dream talk:
The big tree, the tree that eats the mother.
It has been made into an axe handle."