Strangers on earth
I fell from the sky and shed tears on the beautiful face of the earth.
The connotation is as deep as diamonds, and the heart sings silent songs to make the dwarf trees dance.
I cried when I remembered the time. What year? What day?
I became a son of the earth! I can't stop crying at the thought of the sky.
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Socrates' cup is beautiful and fragrant because of the truth in his mouth.
Poetry is a quiet path leading to the jungle, extending from autumn tears on the earth.
Life, a ladder standing between heaven and earth! Looking at the elephant in the distance so eagerly.
I lost my wings and gained my poetic instinct and my invisible hometown.
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Being trampled has become my happiness, as a road.
A lonely artistic conception that essentially exists as a blessing.
The night gently covers the petite iris at the end of the river.
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How great is the silence at night! How profound the reverie left to dawn is!
When the poet falls, the lonely sky will not be more lonely.
Oh, oh! Poetry, you are the burning hope of a great soul.
(June 5438 +2009 10 Final Draft of Beautiful House of the Mind)
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I want to explain my debt to a little beetle.
I owe it to everyone in the world. Even apologize to a bug.
I owe my eyes, which let me see how small I am so far!
I am very young! It can only be in one place. Many of my hopes are due to me.
Oh! I can't draw water from the well and water and trim the garden at the same time.
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Many things, I can only face separately. Many people! Many many
I can only love one by one. If I can't agree, I can only respond with silence.
There is only sin, and I don't owe it anything. I will always say no to it.
In order to dress the wound in the sky, my heart was torn into white gauze!
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Life rolls with the earth. My heart is a star in the night sky.
She illuminates herself first. Then enlighten the lonely land.
I never put light on my back, as if I only shine for others.
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I want to explain my debt to a little beetle: I have an angel's heart.
But refused to fly bravely as a villain! Free from the shackles of the earth
Oh! The mirror of truth shines brightly, revealing the ever-present debt in my human nature.
(the first draft in March 2007, the final draft in June 5438 +2009 10).
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attend
Moon, don't shrink your new moon. Standing in the chaotic sky
In the distant garden, once real sadness was led to the sky. It's called a dark cloud.
I gave up when the words might cover you. We walked along the Milky Way.
Look at what people are doing in spring. What do upturned lips shout out?
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Opening the prison of the world, I carefully say my blessing to those who hate me.
Then, follow God's fingerprints. Run! Run happily!
I am an athlete in the sky, and even the searchlight will be rejected.
Among you. I am a gardener, and I am a flower. I'm Wo Jia, looking forward to growing up.
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Language? Stand like the night sky and sing with the broken wings of poetry.
Human heart? Mist swept by, trying to erase the stripes of leopards in my artistic conception.
From a stage to a long street, poets and themes have been purified.
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Living in the present is the value of existence. The absence of poetry is the ruin of the dead land.
The waves have been singing crystal songs for thousands of years! So pure and flawless
I am the good sister of the waves. My hometown is rocking on the sea.
(the first draft in March 2007, the final draft in June 5438 +2009 10).
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The flame is singing affectionately.
The inner spirit no longer crackles, but that doesn't mean I stopped singing.
I am no longer as eager to talk as I was when I was young, and my words are no longer entangled in fighting.
Care about the world peacefully, live in harmony with others, but never collude with evil.
I extract the brilliance of the night in singing, and make myself warm while illuminating others.
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Although the stars are high, they are not as good as street lamps to comfort Nightcrawler's loneliness.
My love is a street lamp in the rain, providing warm wishes in the dark places of mankind.
I would rather hug and kiss beggars and drink the bitter water in their hearts.
But I haven't learned to bow and scrape to the nobility for the satisfaction of selfish desires.
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I regard poetry as a spiritual public service, and I feel ashamed to exchange it for a glass of cold water.
The deeper the flame sings, the more silent it is, the closer it is to human suffering and the more affectionate it is.
No longer as self-pity as when I was young, but as broad, accepting and inclusive as the earth.
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As a night singer in the world, no one ordered me to sing, and no country rewarded me for singing.
It is because people's hearts have not been at peace, and their tears have not been dried by the gospel.
I can't stop burning myself and take my golden voice greetings to the lonely journey to the ends of the earth.
(June, 5438+February, 2009, the final draft of the House of Beautiful Mind)
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Meditate on the back of autumn leaves
Autumn leaves with heavy load are scattered at the end of time. Never forget my dream.
It seems that the soul flies poetically, refusing to be left behind and truly forgotten.
The famous sunset on the steep slope leers at my ruby-bright name.
Fate: the beauty of vanity has long been the rhetoric of the blind.
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I am thoughtful and tired to stand in the same outline of the urban arch bridge.
Looking back at the granary of middle-aged memories and those metaphors suitable for reading age
The hunchback of autumn leaves is like a mirror, calling me one dream after another.
They fell on the shoulders of the earth affectionately, crying and crying.
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I stood on the left side of the bright sunshine, thinking about exhaustion and writing my glory.
Fame is like another mirror, which bows its back to congratulate me.
The poet's life is essentially full of love, hard work, tolerance and ease.
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Listen to the nightingale and the flowers singing aphasia facing the sea.
But I can't save you, when poetry is just a little victory of my time.
Oh! Please don't give it those pale glory and shameless sacredness.
(June 5438 +2009 10 Final Draft of Beautiful House of the Mind)
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Can drink
I fell on the edge of Beijing, and the beautiful dawn enveloped my prayers.
Dahlia smiled at me calmly. Homer's thought has a path of truth.
The eagle flies in the blue sky, with the advice of the great poet.
Oh, oh! I get beautiful inspiration from the sacred dream of an awakened subject.
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I knelt on the celestial body in Beijing and carefully watered the last rose.
Excavate the brilliance of poetry in the face of Homer's hero.
Can't stop! I can't give up my commitment to the human soul because of the lack of beauty in the times.
Don't care about your own pain, when the round cup of the earth overflows the tears of homesickness.
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It was my diamond-like love, full of humiliation, poverty and pain.
That's my noble and rare gift for poetry.
Join hands with all good people and walk towards the hall of love with full ability.
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Holding Homer's skirt, I, a solemn dwarf poet.
Sing the name in your lonely praise with deep affection.
Shuttle on the bridge in Beijing, let me understand the necessity of overlooking and kindness.
(June 5438 +2009 10 Final Draft of Beautiful House of the Mind)
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Memories of middle age
Sleepwalking on the back of autumn leaves. I, the only priestess living in seclusion at the end of the library.
Standing on the altar of human spirit, refining poetry from the burning fire of life.
How pure they are! A sumptuous lunch as a sacred and simple person.
But I still sleepwalk on the back of autumn leaves. Actually, I can't whip you.
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Reluctantly submit to the blue marble fate
Tolerance is more virtuous than patience, who doesn't want to admire it!
How sacred the heart of an indifferent bystander living in beauty is!
Except compassion, who has the right to criticize mankind! Peony falls like a flower.
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The mission of one ant to love another ant, no matter how just.
Their peaceful performance is just busy occupying and sharing food.
The raging wind beats my immortal dreams and ideals hidden in the black iron.
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Riding autumn leaves to see flowers, burying footprints in dusty songs all the way.
At the age of forty, I was blinded by sin and lit a lamp with Socrates' fire.
Starting from the diagonal street of foreign libraries, teaching shines talented poems on every household.
(June 5438 +2009 10 Final Draft of Beautiful House of the Mind)
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Song of the little poet
Who will read a little poet's night poems and his tearful confidence?
When birds and crows pass the fire tip, the sound of truth cuts through the dawn sky.
The lonely steed is put on a brand-new reins of post-science. Like Plato's cave
Look into the hole. Memories only give us our own shadow and the absurdity of the whole world.
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It's an honor! As a little poet, I was wet with spittle at night.
As a poem of life spasm, it is scattered on the marble blue heart.
No one can recognize the existence of this kind of poetry, and there is no prayer in an out-of-print stone carving.
No one understands its metaphor for happiness and diamond-like singing.
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Spring has repeatedly interpreted a fact: behind God! Behind God!
This flying broken gold is ringing wildly. Time, you are a dream thrown into eternity.
Repeatedly wiped by the light of dawn, leaving only the gift of poetry and the heartbreak of words.
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Poetry, the scar of the sky, the spirit summoned in the artistic conception, little poet
Stick to your garden, embrace your beloved flowers and look forward to offering fruits.
But who expects to awaken a little poet? Who is more noble than this little poet?
(June 5438 +2009 10 Final Draft of Beautiful House of the Mind)
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Another sand lamp
Singing in the shriveled chest of human beings and praying with empty corners of their mouths.
Saying words, losing order, losing the lonely wings of Wan Li's clear sky
Who is it? Dawn transparent poem who will doodle? On a quiet street corner
The first subway flashed in the depths of dawn, penetrating my meditation.
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I, the footprint of Mercury in the last century, was held up by an eagle.
And being taken to the sky is really another elegy, the cup of dawn.
Guard the heights with your heart. Watch this. guard
See through the pupil gap, one last dance at night.
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Football and highway go in the same direction, and I am the other.
In the silence of the future, I truly shine with peace and light.
Man's low mountain! Solid tears of my soul
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My dear human being lost his way in front of me.
No more words to explain my color. Don't make up my beauty
Looking forward to singing, waiting for me to knock on the bright door of this black iron age alone.
(July 2009, the final draft of House of Beautiful Mind)
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hair stylist
Plant hair for the sun with my beautiful poems. Make it the most popular mother on earth.
Otherwise, I will dream every day. I saw its black cloud veil in my dream.
Take my mind as the hair root of the sun. The sun's thoughts are full of reason.
In this way, my eyes have an accurate direction. My tears make the hair of the sun fly.
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Plant hair for the sun with my gratitude. It never jumps over the worst person on earth.
During the day, it travels across the universe. In the evening, it shares my songs alone.
Use my praise as the root of the sun. Make it closer to heaven.
I am lonely on earth, and I have a close relative on the edge of heaven.
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I can't do anything for the sun with my mind. It's at the zenith and I'm on the ground.
I can't imagine how lonely the sun is. Does it feel cold, too
The power of moderation. This is not decoration. Truth makes it extraordinarily magnanimous.
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I can't describe it as weird. My sun is my only beauty.
Except for the noble poems in my life. I can't give anything else.
On behalf of mankind. I am writing a unique poem on your toe.
(July 2009, the final draft of House of Beautiful Mind)
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Dedicated to my daughter Coco.
When I was a child, I gave you a lollipop with a dream with stars at the top.
When I was a child, I gave you a Bible to make the roots of your thoughts as strong as a rock.
When I was a teenager, I gave you peace to express your vision for the future.
In the college entrance examination, I taught you to face the ferocious examination room with a tolerant heart.
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In the university hall, I will give you a gun with bright poetry. Bullets are endless kindness.
We should aim at the hometown of human hatred and let the gunfire ring with praise and bright spring.
I have never dedicated a complete poem to you and your descendants.
What I give you is a bottom-up road, a direction of seeking truth.
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In the wedding hall, I give you my prayers for perfection, purity and beauty as endless treasures.
The old yellow dictionary in my mother tongue is a rose I saved from my hometown coal bunker.
Nobles are not worthy. Your perfect, pure and beautiful love is full of dignity and honor.
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There is one more thing I will give you all my life, which is a heavy blessing in my distant eyes.
I don't want a lollipop connected with infinite reverie, I just wish, I look forward to it.
Every step of your life is like a poem of dawn, shining with the brilliance of truth all the way.
(August, 2008, the final draft of "House of Beautiful Mind")
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Looking at the moon as bright as a flower
The ancient bell rang my deep affection and paid tribute to you in my mother tongue.
Pay tribute again with the scars in your life! The sky is like an unfurled flag.
Who put perfume on you? That's your salvation! Poetry adds luster to my life.
The peaceful foreign land clothed the victorious people with lonely golden clothes.
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The moon is shining with old light in the sky. I mean: all beautiful things.
Everything flashed by. Keep the tearful steps in the commemorative speech
How grand is the Nazi celebration? It's just punctuation omitted from the epic.
Nobody pays attention to this. Nobody pays attention to the dramatic clown except the hero.
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Poets as kind and quiet as their mother tongue, you are beautiful flowers in front of my tombstone.
I can't bear to abuse punctuation to separate poets from poets' poems. It can't be gone.
I have nothing to do with the loss. I silently admire your peony-like beauty.
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A poet as pure as a flower. Poems that hold one's head high on the earth. So natural
I am moored in the middle of the sea, looking at the bright moon like a stranger.
Autumn falls like tears. How did the needle of that poem touch the fallen heart of mankind?
(the first draft in March 2007, the final draft in June 5438 +2009 10).
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library
The crumbs of the soul flicker, blurring the song! We can only translate by ear.
A song leading to the library. Deep and restrained passion
Good and evil flooded the exhibition hall. Birds on the branches sing through the window;
Everyone will become the reader's version of the other and his own garden.
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As usual, I walked with affectionate steps in my mother tongue, scratching my head and thinking.
Crying on the street corner of the city, where the glory of mankind cannot shine.
Write noble poems. Eat frugal meals. Sing a blessing song.
Dedicated to the human beings between the blue sky and the black land, with the kindness of their mother tongue.
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On the hard wall of the library, the words on the title page are full of happy tears!
My shriveled eyes are full of pure love. Touch the heartbeat of your mother tongue with both hands.
Borges created an eternal poem with the mirror in his heart and the sun.
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Oh! That's the light turned back from darkness! Is the truth established in distortion.
Let me travel with the arch of the library. A fire cluster that ignites the soul
I, silently bearing the redemption of language by poetry, am covered with the sorrow of human cognition.
(August 2009, the final draft of House of Beautiful Mind)
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Dusk is like a potato flower by the sea.
At dusk, the ancient sea breeze did not fall on the potato flowers.
What a quiet potato flower stretches out to time.
People in blue history. Be summoned by the seahawk, summon
Soul, lonely sun, gives the road a scorching melancholy.
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Silence, like a song, tightly covers the whole seaside potato flower dusk.
Walking in the quiet flowers. Think in blue light
Boat, you are no longer my hope. Earth, you are the hometown of the unborn.
But petite potato flower, how pure your gentle fragrance is!
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Full of ghosts, full of homesickness all night.
Diffuse. Oh, bright tulip messenger at night
The blue beast with a poem walks like an elf to the jungle deeper than dawn.
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Blue potato flowers are full of burning passion.
The time flashing in the blue light, gently embrace the path when you come.
I, hidden in the depths of withered marble, sang all night.
(August 2009, the final draft of House of Beautiful Mind)
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homeland
However, I can't give you anything but poetry and my prayers.
Except the love of the cross and my lonely and affectionate gaze at midnight. Motherland!
When the night comes again, the artificial light of the street lamp does not deserve to shine on you.
Please allow me to be your poet, because I don't belong to other countries.
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I am unarmed except for love! I have nothing but poetry.
When rock chose to sing that black iron word at noon, it was me.
When the last drop of the sea was thrown into space, it was me
A lonely poetic theme as kind and pure as his mother.
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Oh! Who can stop the sun from coming out of the night? Decadent humanity
Don't refuse the comfort of poetry. When the spiritual home is broken
Please allow the tearful birds on dahlias to return to the blue sky.
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In the final choice, I still sang that song calmly with dry eyes.
For example, the earth dedicated the splendid axe handle to the sky, and the holy love between blue and black.
And I wrote eternal poems between heaven and earth.
(August 2009, the final draft of House of Beautiful Mind)
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Sweet tears of swan
The swan fell on the edge of the sky, dozing affectionately, hiding her song.
How she doesn't want to express herself in words! In the autumn when words can't reach.
The cool wind stopped at the top of the mountain. No one can awaken her from poetry.
oh hell no Can't force her silent ode out of her beautiful chest.
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Walking in the distant garden like a dream. As one of the flowers.
We can't name her, from the best to the most beautiful.
We can't return to the essence of language. Like the wings of the sky
Who deserves to pollute her! Who is qualified to disturb the happy silence of this quiet creature?
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She never looked back at me again, and the tears in her eyes were always reflected by the glory of heaven.
When I saw her, the autumn was crisp, the night was bright, and the stone-like humanity talked about her.
I squatted in the heart of the moon and announced: Please cover your sinful mouth with your hand!
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The swan is thinking brightly in the dark sky. We have no right to interpret her beauty.
When people are still noisy in the dark, they scream like an axe touching the mouth of a knife.
We can only respond to the noble dignity of swans with stupid reasoning.
(June 2009, 5438+065438+ 10, the final draft of "Beautiful Mind House")
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Myrtle flowers bloom quietly.
People can bury the wise man, but they can't erase her thoughts that are active in eternity.
The tombstone-like forehead shines quietly with truth and glory. She finally fell asleep.
Accompanied by the shadow of the young birch forest. Let's go Let's go
The road from birth to death is full of hardships, sacredness and prosperity.
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Facing the unborn white man, Myrtle sang softly like tears.
Remembering the dead or torturing the living? Myrtle was silent as tears.
If you want to bypass the winter garden, you must bypass the despicable people.
In this severe winter, my face is covered with dimples of Myrtle's death.
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But those who walk down the steps, I'm going to wake up their dreams.
Don't let ideals hurt them, these children! Ideals will break their hearts.
When they think God is dozing off, they dare to do anything evil.
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Spring is a sister who stands in deep sorrow and waits. Her singing is like the heart of the sky.
Wandering alone in the human eye or hiding in the sinking star.
The golden boat in the air is full of Myrtle's tears and my expectations!
(June 2009, 5438+065438+ 10, the final draft of "Beautiful Mind House")
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Cross-eyed dawn
I deeply care about human beings, and I lost my hometown in your mind.
I looked at the light in your eyes step by step. I can't see!
Is this a landscape, too? Cross-eyed dawn looked contemptuously.
How can I build your glory? How can I sing an ode for you?
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Lost the joy of the past. I calmly corrected Myrtle's pink smile.
Not tainted by vanity. I don't need to carve my life with poetry.
I am the beauty of my life. Poetry is the call of good quality in my life.
The cross-eyed dawn is in front of me and looks like a ferocious rag.
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Who can graffiti the connotation of my singing, who can? My life is from the bottom up.
This is a dawn that needs to provide for the aged. This is a land of roots.
How to build a shed between the library and the stock market?
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Mertel laughs like Hua Bing, which really scares me! Makes my sympathy tremble.
Dawn. Oh! Where's your attitude instrument overlooking pleasure?
Human nature. Oh! Please stop distorting the brilliance of the dawn.
(June 2009, 5438+065438+ 10, the final draft of "Beautiful Mind House")
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epitaph
When I enter the long-awaited eternity in the celebration of life, the living people
Please don't plant tears on my epitaph.
Please understand my joy! Please comfort everyone with my poem as warm as a stove.
Please listen to the ode on my inscription: She belongs to Christ.
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The wound on my body is like the garden of life, and every flower is an interpretation of love.
As soon as possible, use the epitaph to continue to hurt us human beings. I have been studying love all my life.
After the beautiful journey on earth, I used my last breath to persuade the living:
You should love each other. You should comfort each other. You should be kind to each other.
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I left you a poem in full bloom, like a golden iris poem.
They once bloomed in the dirty land of mankind. This means that I will live forever.
I have also used the guava leaves of my heart as your mat, and your feet will be clean.
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People from the past. Oh! Please don't cry for my happiness, but confess your sins.
I can't do good for you. The garden in the depths of the sea is brighter and higher than the night sky.
I raise my soul's arms above the dark clouds and pray for your eternal life. Amen!
(June 2009, 5438+065438+ 10, the final draft of "Beautiful Mind House")
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Stranger's midnight
When I was named midnight crystal, I couldn't tell everything.
When the black iron eulogy can no longer be sung loudly from the heart.
I'd rather you were something else, or something unrelated to poetry.
Or just the chorus of the poet named midnight bright singer.
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What I can't say is that I am calm because of you, and I am radiant because of you.
The glittering and translucent lips of a cheerful eulogy make our times full of the connotation of singers.
In the middle of the night, street lamps rush to dawn like the triumphant son of the earth.
Street lamps, like a prodigal son who rushed out of his father's house, stood on the street all night homesick.
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I don't just drive words, rhetoric, cakes and grape cups.
My mind won't even give up the names on the map.
I can't give up the poems that sublate my life in my memory.
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From midnight to the dawn of mankind, the poet sits neatly in his seat.
Give the motherland and the people the most intimate and authoritative evaluation by hand.
Now, that sentence in the song of black iron has become my resurrection.
(May 2009, the final draft of "Beautiful Mind House")
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Song of Lonely Old Architecture
Sing with your vicissitudes smile. Snuggle up on your stiff old body and think deeply.
The old building on the corner, you are not! Not a knight who triumphed with a sword
Standing in the square of history with no expression. You are even like a glass of water.
Quietly and warmly accept the fumigation of the sun and the beating of the wind and rain.
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Lyrics about this old building. I, a singer with a scarred smile.
Open a charged heart. Accept the light of this sacred flame.
This is a disgraceful ancient building with no beautiful shell.
Bronze garden at night. The epitaph of rain. A girl's gentle and broken house of love
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Ancient architecture, the earth's short-lived companion: the essence of pain comes from being rooted in the earth
Deep in the fading dark clouds, the sun gazes tenderly at the beauty of simple things.
A golden boat, rippling on the earth, the brain of a lonely spiritual wise man.
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Oh! Decadent trees are singing the songs of dead leaves enthusiastically in the blue autumn wind.
A kind of regression is the noumenon towards beauty. Look! The garden is fragile and broken.
The reproduction of language is like rolling waves. The lonely hometown is shining with glory.
(August 2009, the final draft of House of Beautiful Mind)
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The purity of rotting things and things themselves.
When we win the ontology of existence, words are the weakest explanation.
When we really exist in rotten things, purity is the only explanation.
For yourself or for God. We can only silently adhere to the law of creating beauty.
How can the turbid heart in the stone make a clear sound? How can you sing the song of life?
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We unconsciously stare at the process of machine operation, just like the passion of discovering truth.
But the origin of the machine and the quality of the machine are ignored. The machine stood by.
We are like strangers on the coast, wandering blankly and exiled ideally!
In the human heart. Talking to yourself is the safest and most sacred wisdom.
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Man wins science in the unknown, but arrogantly wastes his life in the known.
Watching the earth leave us step by step. We chose to move forward.
Would rather let the earth go backwards. Who wrote glory and history with the tail gas of thought?
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Cover the trap of philosophy with a layer of rational flowers. People who believe!
From caves to the back of the sun, from gardens to the sea, from reason to caves.
Abandoned the poem of redemption. Where are we! How do you enjoy the joy of truth at night?
(June 2009, 5438+065438+ 10, the final draft of "Beautiful Mind House")
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Sadness makes beauty more beautiful.
There is nothing gentler than this. The blue sadness in our hearts
It deeply reminds us that what lies under the tombstone is more eternal than the living.
More glorious than those meaningless anger. The eagle is still flying. Continue to rise
In autumn dusk, Ying Chao stands on the tower.
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Xiaohua opened her mouth with tears in her eyes. It is eager to bring us a little happiness.
In the incense altar of life, the glorious words are full of the lost poetry of mankind.
These elements turn grief into joy. It is the pillar of fire in the depths of our lives.
Illuminate our initial glory from the inside and shine on us forever.
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How sacred and beautiful floret's confessional lips are!
Pray that the tears of the body will be dried by the flame, and hope that the soul will be pure as water.
Sadness is gentler and more admirable than childhood. On the altar of life
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We should not underestimate these elements that make beauty more beautiful. Blue light is shining and passionate.
Where do we seem to have seen the brilliant poem hanging on Xiaohua's face?
It renews us in the burning fragrance. Arouse our sorrow for sin
(June, 5438+February, 2009, the final draft of the House of Beautiful Mind)