A poem, a modern poem, a modern poem?

No one is like me.

No one will be like me.

Keep everything in your heart.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Wait quietly.

Waiting for you to find me.

Tell me. Everything makes no sense.

It's all just speculation.

That's all.

Untitled. It was indeed decided three years ago.

It was indeed decided thirty years ago.

Those erratic days.

Repeat it tomorrow.

It will continue to repeat itself tomorrow tomorrow.

I cried. Trying to imitate a kind of sadness.

I grieve. but imagined the way to cry.

In the middle of the night. Talking about a tree.

Maybe. In a visually moving pose.

Poured into the arms of a lover.

Trying to use my passing light to be strange.

Uncover a philosophical proposition.

It turns out that I lived before I was born.

So please come and love me.

So please come and hurt me.

Suppose I were a flower.

If I were a flower, I would rather bloom at the intersection where you must pass, swaying in the wind and talking to you.

If I were a flower, I would rather bloom in the moment of your troubles, and send you a fragrance and elegance.

If I were a flower, I would rather bloom in that greenhouse and decorate a beautiful home for you.

If I were a flower, I would rather bloom on the dullest of days.

Accompany you through spring, autumn, winter and summer!

Homesickness is a song of the hometown.

It is a clear flute.

Always on a moonlit night.

Ringing the face of the hometown.

But it's a vague melancholy.

As if in the fog.

Waving goodbye after parting.

Homesickness is a tree without annual rings.

Never grow old. Rise.

Bright moon.

High in the night sky. Submit.

A touch of homesickness.

Welling up in my heart.

Parents, like geese flying south, get on the train, run all the way, say goodbye to their hometown, stay away from their relatives, just to support the sky at home.

Grandma, like an old cow in the field, farms all year round, guards the home, looks into the distance, just wants to live a happy and healthy life.

We are like kites with broken strings, going up and down the mountains, catching birds and fishing, playing and playing, free, never, thinking about the road ahead.

The world in the mountains is limited, my thinking;

My parents were far away, and I lost my guidance.

We, in the little village, wandered; We, in the game, wander. I don't want to be like my fathers, guarding an acre and three points of land;

I don't want to be like my parents, wandering all my life.

I want to see it, I want to break through.

Like an eagle, it travels for nine days;

Like a horse, galloping across the earth.

unwillingness, mediocrity for a lifetime;

I just want to laugh at Hongchen!

The Dream of Left-behind Children

Original text of "I Think":

I want to put little hands.

Resting on a peach tree branch.

With a bunch of buds, holding thousands of rays of sunshine, yo, yo-

Singing with a long voice.

I want to put my feet.

Attached to the roots of willow trees.

Reach into the soft and wet earth, soak up the sweet nutrients, long, long, long

Grow into a green tent.

I want to put eyes.

Mounted on a kite.

Look at how soft the white clouds are, look at how bright the sun is, look, look-

Blue skies are my classroom.

I want to put myself on my own.

Planted in the spring of the land.

It becomes a small grass, green and shining, and it becomes a small flower and blooms beautifully.

Becoming catkins and dandelions is my greatest wish.

I'll fly, fly

Fly to distant places.

However, when flying to a distant place, you have to discuss ...... with your parents

A late-night memory.

Author] Lu Quinoa The moonlight flowed into the threshold, I thought it was the sun opening the door, or late at night, and soon, a wind came from the north, as if blowing the bowstring of the moon, so I heard the sound of dawn, the river bank was pressed by the shadow of the mountains, and there were stars flowing through the wilderness, and I felt that everything was still sleeping, and I was the one who woke up first.

Wine is a poison that pierces the intestines, color is a steel knife that scrapes bones, wealth is a tiger that goes down the mountain, and qi is the root and seedling of trouble.

That's a lot. For example, Xu Zhimo in junior high school's "Farewell to Kangqiao" and Dai Wangshu's "Rain Alley".

There are a lot of them, especially a lot, such as "Homesickness" in the afterglow

"The Journey".

When the will falls.

Life will no longer stand.

Crooked figure.

And how can you bear it? Autumn leaves are bleak.

The wind is rushing in the evening. Hang your head.

Just to raise the mind.

If you have an unyielding soul.

Under your feet, there will be a solid ground.

No matter where it goes.

There will be countless pairs of eyes following you.

From someone else.

We got to know ourselves.

1. The tenth song, "Waiting for You, In the Rain" in the afterglow: e5a48de588b662616964757a686964616f31333332643831

"Far and Near" Gu Cheng.

You'll look at me in a moment.

Look at the clouds for a while. I feel like you're looking at me far away.

It's very close when you look at the clouds.

A Generation" Gu Cheng.

The night gave me black eyes.

But I use it to find light.

Broken Chapter" Bian Zhilin.

You stand on the bridge and look at the view, and the people watching the view are looking at you from upstairs.

The bright moon decorates your windows, and you decorate other people's dreams.

Xi Murong's poem "A Flowering Tree".

How to make you meet me.

In my most beautiful moments.

I have been praying for this before the Buddha for 500 years.

Pray to the Buddha for us to form a relationship with the earth.

The Buddha turned me into a tree.

Grow by the side of the road that you must pass.

Flowers bloom discreetly in the sun.

The flowers are the hope of my past life.

When you approach. Please listen carefully.

That trembling leaf.

It's the enthusiasm I was waiting for.

And when you finally walk through in defiance.

Falling to the ground behind you.

Friend, that's not petals.

That's my withered heart.

Homesickness is a small stamp when I was a child.

I'm on this end. Mother is over there.

Growing up, nostalgia is a narrow ticket.

I'm on this end. The bride is on that end.

Later, nostalgia is a low grave.

I'm out there. Mother is inside.

And now nostalgia is a shallow strait.

I'm on this end. The continent is on that end.

Rain Lane] holding an oil-paper umbrella, alone.

It's long, long.

And lonely rain alley, I hope to meet.

A clove like that.

A girl with a grudge.

She has the color of cloves, the fragrance of lilacs, the sorrow of lilacs, and she complains in the rain, complains and hesitates;

She wandered in this lonely rainy alley, holding an oil-paper umbrella.

Like me, like me.

Silently.

Indifferent, desolate, and melancholy.

She silently approached, approached, and threw again.

Tai Xi general vision.

She floated like a dream, like a dream, as miserable and confused as a dream.

It's like floating in a dream.

A lilac field, and this girl floated beside me;

She silently walked away, far away, to the decaying fence, and walked through the rainy alley.

In the lamentation of the rain, her color was dissipated, her fragrance was scattered, and even hers was dissipated.

The eyes of the breath.

Lilac-like melancholy.

Holding an oil-paper umbrella, alone.

It's long, long.

Another lonely rainy alley, I hope to float through.

A clove like that.

A girl with a grudge.