Poetry and prose
-To my brother.
You know, in the bushes over there,
Sleep with magical power,
Late at night, as if in a dream,
The garden will suddenly start singing.
Sometimes through the silent night sky,
This song came to my eyes,
At this time, I will from the bottom of my heart.
Oh, my brother, calling you.
How strange other people are,
I wandered in horror in a foreign land,
We are willing to roam together,
Give me a loyal hand!
We are willing to move together,
Until we're gone.
Listening to the old magic song,
Kneel at my father's grave.
A person's life may burn or rot, I can't rot, I am willing to burn! -Russian ostrovsky.
Yan, there are not many days to come, twenty beauties, please kiss me, the grass is dying, and the young people live well. -British Shakespeare