Only the article is an immortal event (group of poems).
Cheap. In front of Bai Juyi's tomb
When the clothes are clear, they are thrown into the Yellow River, and they will always be turbid, and the stones on the mountains will turn into fierce tigers.
The world is too dangerous, and someone must survive, live for us, and write poetry for us.
The first half of his life was turbulent;
In his later years, on the top of Xiangshan, looking at the flowing water of Longmen and the thousands of grottoes under the sunset in Xishan, he admired those nameless craftsmen: hundreds of years of hard work, fierce tigers, under their chisels, one by one became Buddhas.
In early autumn, Cao Pi marched on the Yinghe River
Xuanjia shines in the sun, and the fierce generals are bold and horizontal, carrying flags for hundreds of miles, and the army marches south.
He sat in the bow of the boat, his stomach aching, and the wine and food were steaming, like a bag of baked cakes I bought from my stall.
The peony blossoms, the heavy snow falls, and the months of marching on the water leave only two lines of text in the "Three Kingdoms".
In the early autumn afternoon, by the Ying River, there was a silence of annihilation, the silence of the cicadas flying and the branches of the trees breaking, and the silence of crying by the river when the sky suddenly got dark when I was a child.
There were clear clouds mixed with rain clouds in the sky, and there was a cloud, and the river was full of worries
Cao Pi's vision:
Awakened by the crane chirp during the nap, he whispered to Wang Cang that only the article is an immortal event.
Looking at the Strait of Malacca
At the top of the hill, I looked out at the Strait of Malacca at dusk, the crossroads of the sea, the throat of history.
The sunset burns the silence, and the seagulls fly slowly, like ashes raised by the autumn wind.
I have come too far, I long to return, I want to take the souls of these stranded expeditionary forces in a foreign land, back to that ancient continent, a sleeping continent
The Qinling Mountains and the Huai River divide the north and south, and the Yellow River and the Yangtze River are equally divided.
Conquering the world is someone else's business, and I just want to survive.
A three-foot country that my ancestors have never left for generations.
Note: There is a cemetery for the Chinese Expeditionary Force in Malaysia.
Hats off to Dante
At the age when you were writing "Hell", in this discursive Jiangnan New Town, on a night after nine o'clock, I turned off the lights and left this school with a butterfly garden, and I seemed to hear the sound of the river in the distance.
Following a tear in the earth, I walked deep underground, without the light of the stars.
The frantically hurried subway is full of tired young people chasing floating clouds in WeChat.
There was a girl sitting next to me, with thick hair, like Rossetti's Beatrizzi, and for a moment we talked about eternal life, in this dewy floating world.
Crane Burners
I'm a crane burner, and I write poetry like fishing.
On the winter solstice, I burned Lu Xun's "Scream", and the ashes were poured into Jinhua wine to drive away the wind and cold of the times.
On the broken bridge, someone pretended to be a white lady, contemporary Xu Xian, and Neptune Pharmacy sold Vajra Vine Pills.
At the foot of the Gem Mountain, No. 54 Peach Blossom Lane, at dusk, there was an old woman's chatter, ancient, and distant, as if from "Xingshi Hengyan".
Late at night, I heard the rooster crowing and was in a trance;
I think of Phoenix Mountain, the trees fall and the mountains are bright, and the past has long been scattered in the chaotic clouds.
Rubble
These stones from Yaoshan and Huangshan, these small Yandang, Xiaoemei, these are in Weishui, Hanjiang, and Tongtian River.
The stones that sink by themselves and float by themselves are consumed by flowing water.
The stone of ordinary nostalgia. These dreams.
The Cambrian and Cretaceous periods are deeply hidden.
Stones of the warm sun, like my tiny body.
Lodged with the sleeping Lu Zhishen, and you repeatedly blocked Ruan's cries with a smile.
These starlight extinguished stones, these stones piled up haphazardly, like a group of mutinous and beheaded soldiers, rolled down their heads all over the ground, and were instantly swallowed up by weeds.
Author of poetry
Cheap. , whose real name is Wu Yanhua, was born in Xiangcheng, Henan Province in 1977 and now lives in Hangzhou.
People who read a lot can have a lot of temperament