Poems about population, poems about the census?

Suppose you're not happy enough.

Suppose you're not happy enough.

Don't frown deeply, either.

Life is short.

Why cultivate bitterness.

Open dusty doors and windows.

Let the sun and rain shine around every corner.

Towards the wilderness of life.

Let the wind iron out your forehead.

Broadness can dilute sorrow.

Dark colors are able to override light colors.

Maybe. Perhaps, there will never be that day.

The future is as bright as the morning glow.

Perhaps, there will never be that day.

Success shines like a lamp.

Perhaps, it can only be so.

Climb but can't reach the peak.

Perhaps, it can only be so.

The rushing stream can't make waves.

Perhaps, we can give it to you.

There is only one. A heart that has experienced the vicissitudes of life.

And a face full of weather.

Census. I suddenly wanted to look at my family register.

Look at where your life began.

Look at the lively family at the beginning.

What an unfamiliar name.

Look at the place of origin. It used to be Sichuan, then it was Chongqing, Wansheng.

Coal is also a place of desire and ash.

It's a small town, but it also has uneven roads, deep alleys and weird corners.

Just like my confused childhood.

I used to be very depressed.

What a bird.

A chirp is the most effective ID card.

The sky is its register.

Now, within the statistics.

I am a migrant who has settled in my hometown:

Middle-aged, Han Chinese.

Have a permanent occupation, a place of residence and a legal marriage.

Although it is not possible to get a complete household register.

But my family and I have a simple relationship and confirm each other.

In fact, hometown has long become more and more like a foreign land.

Power becomes a huge square.

Instinct is like an open bid in a shopping mall.

Everyone who stepped up the steps.

You can feel the power of the decorating and hardening levels.

But in addition to cooperating with the survey becomes data.

I can't prove or change anything, including whose innocence.

As many people do.

You can only think of other places as your hometown.

Census. Suddenly, I wanted to see my own account book.

Look at where your life began.

Look at the lively family at the beginning.

What an unfamiliar name.

Look at the place of origin. It used to be Sichuan, then it was Chongqing, Wansheng.

Coal is also a place of desire and ash.

It's a small town, but it also has uneven roads, deep alleys and weird corners.

Just like my confused childhood.

I used to be very depressed.

What a bird.

A chirp is the most effective ID card.

The sky is its register.

Now, within the statistics.

I am a migrant who has settled in my hometown:

Middle-aged, Han Chinese.

Have a permanent occupation, a place of residence and a legal marriage.

Although it is not possible to get a complete household register.

But my family and I have a simple relationship and confirm each other.

In fact, hometown has long become more and more like a foreign land.

Power becomes a huge square.

Instinct is like an open bid in a congregation mall.

Everyone who stepped up the steps.

You can feel the power of the base Zheng and the rank after decorating and hardening.

But in addition to cooperating with the survey becomes data.

I can't prove or change anything, including whose innocence.

As many people do.

You can only think of other places as your hometown.

Say "Hello".

Knock on the closed door.

A "thank you".

It's the aftermath of your departure.

Ask patiently.

Like a spring breeze blowing thousands of doors.

Check carefully.

Leave no doubt unquestioned.

Fill it out carefully.

It is your noble responsibility.

The skeptical gaze.

I don't understand the look in my eyes.

The hidden friend's unfriendly rhetorical question.

That irrational refusal.

The door that couldn't be knocked on for a long time.

Need you. In warm language.

The broad stove buries the locust mind.

And that perseverance.

Go and resolve them one by one.

I sing a song in praise of you.

Ordinary census takers.