I don't remember when I began to like you. Maybe it was when I subconsciously changed my nickname to Qin Si Xiao Jian, maybe longer. But now, none of this matters. In this ignorant youth, I miss Hua Song's past in time, attached to the steam evaporated by the river, and spread into a fog.

It's July now, and the afternoon sun is as strong as the previous summer, burning on my body and having a strong dark wound. Walking on the past streets, watching the hurried crowd, I can't help but think of you occasionally, thinking of you who hates the heat in summer, the bleak in autumn and the cold in winter, and only likes your beautiful spring.

And your smile is like spring, like everything in spring, warm wind, warm sunshine and slight ripples. There is an indescribable affinity for your smile, such as the grass washed by drizzle, the bud that just broke out of the ground, and the butterfly that has not yet spun silk. These really don't matter anymore, because spring has long passed, and now it's hot and impersonal.

Our youth seems to be buried with the spring of that year, buried in the grave for people to pay homage to.

I still think of the dense Magnolia grandiflora on campus. Every time it just enters summer, the air will emit the most wonderful fragrance in the world, which is even more fragrant than the most expensive perfume.

I'm still thinking about the tall sycamore trees on campus. Every autumn, its fallen leaves are always covered with paths, like some yellowed carpets. It's Pinellia ternata now, and autumn is coming soon. The wall clock should be making a final struggle, and the leaves should be making a final effort. However, when it comes to holidays, who will they keep out the sun for?

Still thinking about the snow scene on campus, which is the most beautiful scenery in boring study life. Snow covered the whole Dutch-style building. We were panting and wearing heavy coats, but there was no protection on our hands. We frantically stroked snowballs and had snowball fights. It's really funny to think about it. The falling snow will eventually break into a smile. Maybe we won't be so happy when we have snowball fights in the future. Snowball fights on campus are always the most enjoyable games.

Finally, I bid farewell to those heavy books, those papers with ink fragrance; Farewell finally, those red hooks and forks; Finally bid farewell to the fallen leaves that need to be cleaned for a long time, sometimes a whole morning reading class; Farewell, the most painful three years of my life.

There will be people reviewing their lessons on the stone benches and tables, and maybe they will carve their names on the mottled stones like themselves. That tree-lined path will be replaced by couples walking hand in hand and enjoying youthful love; At the door of that classroom, there will be a boy, quietly waiting for a girl, and then happily rush to the canteen; That stadium will be replaced by some boys, sweating in the heat and not tired; That morning, there will be a loud reading sound.

Those are gone, like 20 10 spring.

However, why is there some loss and nostalgia in my heart? Is this feeling a commemoration of youth?

Rainwater in rainy season drips on black keys, playing noisy music, and together with the besieged city I sang, building a tall grave, burying those dribs and drabs of memories, those favorite feelings, those fidgety pains and those hazy love. ...

In the spring of 20 10, there is only one point and one unique point on the coordinate axis of time. And every year the four seasons will be a point, a unique point. What the four seasons are changing is actually just different scenery.

Some memories, never buried with them, escaped from the internet, took photos and hid them in a youth album of their own.

Now, I finally bid farewell to those simple, like fruit on a fruit tree, and began to mature.

Instead of just laughing, you can coquetry and ask for money from home, and you don't want to ask for money from home, because it's time to be independent when you grow up.

In midsummer, fruits are slowly gestating, and we are ready to start harvesting in autumn. We are also gestating maturity, gradually bidding farewell to ignorant youth and walking on the rugged road.

Life is really a great escape. Family and friends make themselves less lonely on the way to escape. Career and hard work make them have something to do on the way to escape, while youth is like a passer-by on the way to escape, hastily buried and on the way to escape. ...

The wind chimes of youth opened my heart, the colored flutes of youth blew my dreams, and the notes of youth drove me to hope. Youth, this beautiful season, is the time for us to sow hope, cherish hope, grasp hope and let hope shine in our hands.

What is youth? Youth is hope. What does youth need? Youth needs to be grasped. Youth without regrets, perfect answer sheet, grasp it well. When the spring breeze breaks out, look back on the past, grasp it carefully and do everything well. At least "this" is also the confession of our life. Hold your youth in your hands, keep your hopes in your heart, pursue with your hopes and dreams, struggle and create the brilliance of your youth.

Some people say that the ship of life cannot live without ideal sails. It is said that the ideal of life is for the ideal life. The happiest time in an ideal life is the flower season of dreams.

Just as wind is to sails, just as temperature is to seeds, just as sunshine and rain are to the growth of everything, praise is an indispensable spiritual nutrition in our growth process.

(1) Three In the snow

It snowed in March.

My mother died in the dust

It's not just the winter sunshine that disappears in the sky.

And flying pigeons.

The strings are broken.

I fell on the top of the mountain in the depths of Yuntao and cried.

March is the season when flowers bloom.

And my harvest is really the withering of flowers all over the world.

On the snowy road

Dance with dead leaves

I sat on the ground.

Look up at the gates of heaven every night.

And the river that can't swim.

The stars have long since disappeared.

There is no touch of the moon on the ditch.

I debug with my own tears.

Playing a prime minister's song on a snowy night.

(2) Unrequited love

look at you

Sprinkle light green in my lonely autumn

Grow into crazy spring grass

(3) My youth

The dark sky in winter

No beautiful birds fly by.

a pool of stagnant water—stagnant/lifeless condition

No fish swims happily

I flew into the sky.

Overlooking the flowers projected on the running water

I found that it had turned yellow in the wind of years.

Childhood is a complete mirror.

Youth is a mottled leaf.

Who is full of worried mountains and valleys?

Who sleeps in the dream of white clouds?

The cuckoo sings every night in spring.

But the passion that has passed away?

(4) Bright March

Bright March

Many flowers and shadows

The wind shakes the green leaves

I opened the window.

The sun came in.

Drive away the shadows.

I hear lonely and broken voices.

The shredded water of youth taken away by birds

Isn't it my sadness that shines?

Forget all this.

The wine I once drank.

Once lost mountain road

The snow on the mountain has melted.

In this beautiful March

Let's listen to the whispers of flowers and dreams together.

2、

You are my youth.

You came quietly,

With a little naughty.

You are so naive,

Hypocrisy is irresistible

You came quietly,

With a little dream,

You are so cute.

You're weak,

Freshness is your temperament,

Simplicity is your wealth.

I want to hold you in my arms,

But you cried.

Therefore, I will no longer desecrate your purity.

Just because you are my youth.

3、

Youth without emotion

< 1 >

When I look back again,

The one in the back.

Yao Ming waved his hand for a long time.

but

Still nothing.

Only the leaves on those trees in the back.

In the wind

Show off gently

< 2 >

In these quiet days, I always look out of the window silently.

Look at that bare tree. It's a single old man who spends the winter.

My frozen wound is still slowly bleeding.

Lonely branches are bare and scattered in the cold breeze.

The roots are full of confusion.

A few finches are jumping under the eaves, looking here from time to time.

But never far from their warm home.

The sun is always pale in the dignified sky.

A monotonous and silent sigh over and over again

After shaking your face again and again, there is nothing left.

< 3 >

There are still seven or eight stars scattered on the hay that has not fallen for a long time.

A bird lay quietly in the grass, as if it had been dead for a long time.

I walked through this place, but I couldn't find my deep mark.

The clear river is covered with leaves of all sizes.

Many traps were laid leisurely in a wide valley.

Step on the accumulated fallen leaves carefully.

Find the way with a particularly gentle voice.

Sometimes you will find the shell casings left by old hunters in the years.

I suddenly realized that it was originally composed of some beautiful petals.

Steel plate

< 4 >

Is it to pray for the song of the wind again for the yellow land that has been dry for ten thousand years?

Is it for the end of that song to cross your wandering soul again?

Is it for the soul to surpass a banana that was originally far away from the jungle a few years ago?

Is it because of that unique banana that it continues to wander in the empty fantasy world?

Day after day, I was soaked in rain and exhausted by the scorching sun.

Day after day, dusty footprints make the ground fuzzy.

How many times have tears filled the sea and Wang Yang?

The environment is getting worse and worse, and we can't hit a brand-new human being.

The bitterness and saltiness of past lives still surround the dam you stepped on.

< 5 >

Sitting by the river, sitting on the rough black beach.

I'm thinking about that vast wasteland and yellow mud again.

I have been away from home for a long time, and there is nothing left.

The most disgusting silence is easygoing.

Let the footsteps of the years drift the black floating soil into a blank.

The two mouths finally became a muddled dead sea.

After millions of storms, it is still immortal silence.

< 6 >

Laughter came from a distance.

Flip the pages on the table with the wind.

It's like you're approaching through the distant waves.

This is a lotus flower that blooms in the snowfield in winter. . . . . .

youth

Those infinite memories

Slip out of the track of life quietly

Like a gap in the table.

From this year to next year

year after year

Record happiness and sadness

Confirmed the joys and sorrows.

Left traces of our growth.

Poetry of youth

Shen Qing

The bloom of youth makes me tired but I don't regret it.

The rain and snow in the four seasons make me ecstatic but haggard.

Gentle wind and green dreams, gentle morning and morning drowsiness,

Light clouds and light tears, light years.

With the joy of wandering, I just never came back,

No one hinted at my homesickness when I was a child.

I want to snuggle up in every golden sunset,

Every transparent dewdrop washed away my sadness.

I met her in full bloom in the distant spring,

Full of dazzling brilliance, like a beautiful fairy tale.

Allow me, song for you. I can't sleep every night,

Allow me to cry for you. I can fly freely in tears.

The sky in my dream is very big, and I am lying on your eyelashes.

There were many days in my dream, but I began to want to go home.

I will bury all my songs on that blue hillside,

Waiting for one day they will become legends in the world.

The bloom of youth makes me tired but I don't regret it.

The rain and snow in the four seasons make me ecstatic but haggard.

Tangled clouds, tangled tears, tangled mornings,

Lost wind, lost dreams, lost years.

Youth is a beautiful dream.

But one day I will wake up from my dream.

Youth is a small river

But it will dry up one day.

Youth is a rainbow.

But it will disappear one day.

Youth is a blooming flower.

But one day it will fall.

Youth is the fine sand in your hands.

Unconsciously, it has leaked out.

Youth is a meteor in the sky.

Although it was beautiful, it passed quickly.

Youth is the fragrance left by happiness.

Everything I want to cherish is gone.

2.

Staring at the willow shadow on the shore, I once again entered the memory of youth. It used to be a world of green grass and flowers, but now it is covered with a layer of silver frost. Because for a 30-year-old, playing the string of youth may be a bit out of date.

But, after all, I have been stationed in this life station. Didn't you see those crooked footprints on the road? Listen to that simple flute tune, isn't it the inner call? What a persistent pursuit, what a naive fantasy, no falsehood and no sadness. And those vain and vanity are the footprints of my youth. This is the road I walked when I was defeated by the storm of the times. Yes, the youth I still remember is a painful era, an era in which fanatical passion and shocking slogans are intertwined. I have also studied hard at the cold window, always trying to get rid of the gifts given to our generation by the ten-year disaster-ignorant cloudy and childish dust and shallow mud. However, who can get rid of the air pollution of the times?

Thankfully, I am awake, and I understand life, which is the alternate weaving of sadness and happiness, and the constant translocation of courage and cowardice.

No failure and frustration, no pain and hesitation. Then how can I taste the pride of success and the joy of victory? How can we get rid of childish and shallow footprints? So I look forward, as if I saw a harvest season coming to us. . . . .