Yulinling-Liu Yong is cold and mournful, and Changting is late. At the beginning of the shower, the doors are empty, the party is lingering, and the blue boat is urging. Holding hands and looking at each other, tears swirled in my eyes until there were no words at last, and a thousand words stuck in my throat and I couldn't say it. Thinking of returning to the south this time, this journey is another road. Thousands of miles away, it is misty, and the night sky is a vast night fog. Emotional parting has existed since ancient times, and it is more comparable. It is also a cold autumn festival. Who knows where I am when I am awake tonight? Fear is just the edge, facing the sad morning wind and the setting sun of the waning moon. This is a long time, people who love each other are not together, and I even expect to be satisfied with the good weather and scenery in name only. There are many kinds of customs, who can say! I asked: Rain, I asked to extinguish the light of pig iron, my lover's light and sunshine. I demand rain. I demand to die at night. I invite you to meet the man who buried me this morning. The dust of years is endless. In autumn, I asked: The next rain will wash my bones. I closed my eyes. I asked: Rain is a lifelong fault. Rain is an ocean of joy and sadness.
The rainy world hides under the roof and umbrella, but I welcome you with ecstasy. Let's fly down and water the rain. I open my hands, my mouth and my soul ... but-you just wet the land hastily. What about my sadness and pain? What about the damn long-term memory? You haven't washed it yet. I'm disappointed. I was trembling to tear you apart, and you just coldly wet my thin coat ... How can I not be cruel? Stick to yourself. 2. You go with grinding comfort. I never need to be like a dead grass. I don't need a spring. I want to go far away and drink those desperate tears. I stared at the clouds, expecting the cold electric handle. The earth exploded and burned. My fantasy floated into the sky like gray smoke. Come on, come on, be tough. My head hit the sand on the dead telephone pole. Let death anesthetize my tumbling heart. 3. Okay, my head. The earth is broken. I think the leaves in the field are sinking, and I finally found you. Magma tumbling, blood tumbling. I am no longer a frozen stream or a flat river. I am a dead sea. The blue flame danced wildly. Hongbo is singing wildly. On my plate, I swallowed and chewed, listening to the city being chewed into powder. I swallowed the universe and myself. My chest burst. I was free and started my life again.
2009-05-1321:29: 27 dongcheng city management (fart belt satellite yields 10,000 grains per mu) assassin brother. . . & gt delete
Autumn night in the mountains, empty mountains after the rain, standing in the autumn night, moonlight in the pine forest, crystal stones in the stream, bamboo language of the sweeper going home, lotus leaves in front of the fishing boat, what does it matter? Spring has passed, and the prince and grandson can stay.
I like a song since I was a child: good rain knows the season, when spring comes. Sneak into the night with the wind, moisten things silently. The wild path is dark, and the river is bright. Look at the red and wet place, the flowers in Jinguancheng are heavy. In particular, Li Bai's "Dive into the Night by the Wind" and "Fire in the River Boat" added a sentence: Clouds are dark and rainy, and streams are light and foggy.
Listening to the rain song upstairs, the red candle is faint. In the prime of life, the boat is listening to the rain, the river is wide and the clouds are low, and the broken geese are called the west wind. Now listening to the rain monk Lu, there are stars on his temples. Sorrow and joy are always ruthless, and will last until dawn before the next step. /photos/photo/25 1453268/
Life observation of raindrops beyond the poet's vision. Oh, it is going to rain. The poet sat in the high chair of the cafe, glanced at the sky, mumbled a word and retreated into the darkness. But on the other side of the dark clouds, its life story has just begun. How can I put it? Such trifles often happen. I care more about the poet and tell female readers that it goes down along an invisible straight line, perpendicular to the ground. The periphery of the face is consistent, like the poet's daughter always keeps consistent with the kindergarten and is bent in the sky by pedagogy. It can't help bending, but not for graduation, but to keep wet. It can't choose its own trajectory yet. It doesn't know how to choose anyway. Maybe it knows, but how can it stop? Here, everything has to be added to the happy little prince himself. On the edge of a cloudy day, the crown flickered away from the team and became a cocked tail, swinging straight, bending and rolling, experiencing the freedom and uneasiness of space. Now it seems that you can freely integrate into the small gap of the world, but you can't integrate into the extracurricular activities of junior high school students. On the way home, in the classroom, the poet looked at the reader's chest quietly and decently, but he dared not enjoy this little freedom casually. He had to cling to something or something. A monster is hooking up with an unremarkable luminous body. Fireflies afraid of individualism, looking forward to the power outage in summer night. Just like a poet writing poetry and working for an association, he has lost his freedom and slipped to the ground (the essence of things is always caught on the verge of death). Xiaoyu finally caught a wire to hang clothes, changed his usual direction and began to absorb smaller compatriots. It gradually expands, accumulating into a transparent small bundle tied on its back, which is bigger and heavier than before. It seems to be becoming a transparent gourd with different pearls and grapes or other things. It seems that it can choose this right to make it sharp-edged and have its own form, but it is also doomed. This form of weight has long been defined as a downward natural trap, just like our poet refrains from howling, then legally enters the room and signs for the reader with a beautiful pen, desperately taking everything for himself, but the joint with the wire is getting thinner and thinner, and it will be broken in order to be bigger and fuller. That is to say, the dead body will shake and become a thin line, falling to the ground like a snake that only exists for one second, and will disappear as soon as it swings. It's always wet. In this life, its victory lies in that it has never been dried. Its time is to keep moisture until it becomes another kind of water, splashing a sword on the trouser leg of a poet who just left the cafe.
One rainy night, I wrote to a friend in the north, asking you that the return date was undecided, and the rain rose to Qiuchi in the evening. When * * * cut the candle at the west window, but talk about the rain at night.