Never left
And never cared
We must know the preciousness of our feet
Before it becomes a memory
Land
There is nothing like you
Except for the sun and the air
But there is none that is thicker than you
Only you. You're the only one that holds my footprints
In your arms
I can be as happy as I want to be
And as angry as I want to be
The land
Whether it's the mountains
Or the valleys, or the plains
You'll never give up on your people
You're the one who throws a drop of sweat
In return, there's a basket of fruits. In return, I get baskets of fruits
In the face of your majesty and grandeur
The most magnificent writing
The best poetry
Is just shallow writing
Ancestors, forefathers
Shedding blood and blood for you
For millennia and millennia
Emperors and generals, grassroots bandits and commoners
Realizing their long-cherished wish to become the land
What can I do to show my reverence
Shovels and ploughs
It's just a ritual
Labor is the highest state of life
Labor is the only thing the land wants
The land, the land
I started with you
And I'm back to you again.
In an acre of land
I feel your breath
Touch your texture
Some want to be feathered
Some want to be petrified
I, on the other hand, just want to be earthy
Become a piece of land
Land Modern Poetry 2My father said, "I'm nothing but a peasant with my face to the soil and my back to the sky."
Because of the labor, exhaustion dripped like ink into his bones and
his thoughts, making his body swell and overflow like water
It was a gesture better suited for embracing (or covering)
Someday he would carry a lamp that had run out of oil and tell me
that this was the light that had always been with him. My father's black eyes
would weep, and he would say, I'm old and I can't see anything.
Still can't understand the stone's firmness, how much suffering to endure before it is willing to
completely gray, only the land is the hardest, decaying with the last pain
That piece of yellow land is the father's deep wrinkles
Silhouette gurgling with the afterglow of the sunset's fishy red
In fact, the father has a much greater idea of the hunched over body Just as a mule horse is tired of running to find a piece of desolation, he
desperately pulls out the earth's dark and heavy heart that has been accumulated for ten thousand years in order to
leave a piece of the most holy land on the earth, or use him as a
replacement, in place of the earth to do the most primitive and oldest nurture
This reminds me of the mud in the spring, the barefoot father bowed down to the ground, and then he was in the mud. In the mud of spring, my barefooted father arched his back
as he drove his winter calf to plow the field
a sharp splinter stuck in the heart of his foot
The stubble on the barren land grew taller and taller, to the point where my father's disheveled hair
could no longer hide the scent of their wheat grains
This frail truth was heartbreaking, and I understood it.
The desire to cover the earth is far less strong than the earth's desire to bury my father
Knowing full well that he will be reduced to dust, he still wants to maintain the character of a stone
But his hoe is still shiny to this day, carving the history of the peasantry on the empty earth
But then who left the traces, and my father's footsteps are no longer clear
Modern Poetry of the Land 3Embracing the setting sun, my eyes are half-soothing
Half a river is red, caressed by the deep wind
The willows, gently kissed
On the horseback of the season
The piccolo blows the fallen leaves into seeds
Fluttering and falling
Deep in the land's bloodstream
The sound of the wind and the water swirls
Swinging away from the pale footsteps, swinging away
A layer of staggered furrows
On the forehead of the old man, a song of five lines
Returning birds sing, singing until the moon rises and sets
Splashes of dry smoke and starry flames
Countless times to ignite the darkness of the night
I leaned on the solid clinking of the words
Stride by stride, singing the land's love song
Toward the rainbow like a backdrop
Turned into rain, raining down into a sky full of blessings
Wet the far-away gaze
Hanging on top of the clouds,
It is the sunshine that will never go out in the world
Land Modern Poetry 4Father and the land
I often kiss the land
I also often think of my father's love of the land
I often think of the land.
And I often think of my father
When we were children, we were hungry and cold
And when we heard my father yell
The bullwhip was raised high
The ploughshares went deep into the land
And the ploughshares became wrinkles on my father's forehead
So
We were no longer hungry
No longer cold
Because we felt
The land and the land
I always kissed the land
I often thought about my father
I often thought about my father
Because we felt
the warmth of the wheat
and the coziness of the grain
we read the land
and our father
we grew up to the sound of our father's
yells
and we learned to work the land
and our life with our whips
and we and our father
grew up with our father's
yelling.
We and our father
Sowed different seeds
Harvested the same mood
Land Modern Poetry 5The night began, once again scooped up a handful of silt and yellow soil
Arms stiffened and felt heavy, a string of wonderful, bloody
Torn on the battlefield, lingering in front of the flowers and the moon, for the sake of the land
The land in the middle of China, the Yellow River flowed through
Walking with you hand in hand, wearing stars and moonlight, mist and dewdropsStarlight and moonlight, accompanying the starry morning
The Central Plains woven by stories and myths are heavy
Fruit orchards of peaches, plums and apricots adorn the spring, and golden wheat adorns the blazing summer
The red leaves of the Taihang River are burning red in the autumn, and the snowy snowfall warms the winter
The oracle characters are deep in love, and rusted bronze is shining. The glitter of bronze
From three thousand years ago, Yin Shang came, interpretation of the good news of the gods
With the style of Jian'an, this land of silt
Father's beloved
At this moment, scooping up a handful of silt and yellow soil, the golden light
Battlefield hallucinations, images of boudoir tenderness, along the lips and teeth
Oral cavity, stomach and intestines to become the modern extempore song
Poets Ah! Can you eulogize for the stars, can you eulogize for the moon
The mist and dewdrops dance wildly, and the father becomes mute and transparent
Is there anyone more foolish than the father? The Zhanghe River's clear stream climbs along the Taihang
Moisturizing the land, is there anyone more demented than my father? Letting the yellow sand
Red fruits float down to the top of the head, hitting raw pain, tears slipping down
The ditch of the South-to-North Water Diversion passes by the door of the house, father ah
More lovesickness, more soulfulness
Picking up this yellow soil, the sweat of our ancestors flowed through it, growing barren maize
Wheat, sorghum, cotton, and their love
Land in the Central Plains. The land of the Central Plains is heavy, the land of the Central Plains is passionate
It carries too much, it is overburdened
The Land Modern Poetry 6(1)
The land is like a dragon
Hovering in the hearts of the farmers
It is always alive and vivid
From spring to winter
The great swathes of cut crops
Follow the rivers and the mountains. p>
Along the mountains and rivers
Like auspicious clouds
Soothingly spread on the slopes
As far as the eye can see
All the local folklore
All the folklore is as red as the ears of sorghum
Autumn breezes sing the praises of
Against the blue sky
The people in twos and threes
Are always alive and vivid.
The men and women who are laughing and joking
and bending their knees
and pulling out the yellow rice
are like the angels of God
The earth at this time of the fall
is like a romantic poem
And those who are working
are like the dragon that is rolling over the ground.
The yellow cornstalks
are the precise sentences
punctuating the momentousness of an era
Stripping the Pods of Rice
(2)
In the direction of the sun
Stretching out their arms
Crouching with knees between the ridges of the field
The people who work in the fields
are the most important people in the world, and they have been the first ones to do so.
Into woven bags
Or wattle baskets
Back to the shelter of her home
For the springtime
For the prosperity of her family
Holding the heavy cobs of corn
Deeply in her hands
Without words she quietly watched
The dense grains of corn
Row by row.
Like the lines of a poem
No urban boredom
Not obscure
Every grin and grimace
Was the most painful sensation on the skin
But it never hurt
Farmers' lives and virtues
Are thus commonplace and straightforward
Baling straw
The first time in my life
I have felt this unique pleasure
It was the first time in my life
I had ever felt anything like it. strong> (4)
Carrying the sun and the moon on my back
The earth alone
Treads every autumn harvest day
Rustling the crops
The clattering sound
It's as if the years
I caught in my armpits. Under my armpits
I was crying out for a tickle
Crouching on the stalks
Bending my knees on the stalks
What kind of reverence is this for the sky and the earth
Is it bowing down
Or is it bowing down
All of these things
Can't be expressed in words alone.
Only drops of sweat
are the best
The lash of my cousin's whip
was not only loud
but also meaningful
and seemed to make every little day
jingle and jangle
I was on a bale of straw
and I was so deep in love that my eyes were filled with tears
and my eyes were filled with tears. The color of my father's face is the color of the land
The land was my father's favorite and his most hated
Just like my son, who was a bad son
It dragged him down for his entire life
I couldn't stand my father's cloudy, yellow eyes
Rickety body and bark-like hands
I always longed for the faraway land
I always longed for the distant future.
I always longed for the distant city
Gardens, squares, and houses
When I wandered for years
I dreamt of my father in the middle of the night, but he was so sad
My father, who had never stepped out of that square of land
drowned his whole life in the land
When the land was like a snake, it was like a snake that haunted my father
I thought of my father, and I thought of him, and I thought of him.
Thoughts of my father also haunt me like a snake
Land Modern Poetry 8Whenever the monsoon comes
Sangmi, Bopha, Morakot
These uninvited guests with their pleasant names
Are just like foxes transformed into beautiful women
Labeled with a charm for the eyes
They do all kinds of trickery and deceitfulness
And watch the land being overrun.
The people of his hometown died defending their homes
But they were powerless to resist
Back then, Xie Gong sent his love to the mountains and water, poetic coolness
The penned fairyland was envied by future generations
Master Xuanjue was enlightened to the realization that there is no greatness after the enlightenment
The "Song of Proof of the Path" was heard, and it was famous at the peak of the Maitreya Mountain
The dream of meeting his soulmate in his dreams, and his walk was also a Zen one.
Yongjia is not ashamed of the love of travelers day and night
The beautiful dream back
The pace of modernization is like a shadow
The green field has long been eclipsed
The clean stream, the fresh wind
Playing with the joy of running barefoot on the ridge
Those who are lost in the childhood memories
Fade into the past
The time is lost in the time
The people of Yongjia have been in the past. p>
Left behind on the gradually shrinking land
My old folks
Counting down the years as if they were a family
There was a pond in the center of the village
There was also a mulberry orchard in the sandy area
By the Oujiang River, there was a large bamboo grove
In the peak of summer at that time
The river was full of people who were caught fishing and swimming with mussels
The Oujiang River was full of people who were caught fishing and swimming with mussels
The Oujiang River was full of people who were caught fishing and swimming with mussels.
......
Sneaking closer to my hometown
I hear
The creek, covered by thick stone slabs
Hiding in the shadows and crying secretly
Knocking on the familiar doorway
The moss-covered old house at my feet
The weeds have overrun the walls of the courtyard
The old house is a great example of the kind of place you can go to when you're in a hurry. The weeds have taken over the courtyard wall
Only the old well at the end of the village still
spits out its last sweetness
nourishes the heart and soul
Land Modern Poetry 9I love the land
Ai Qing
If I were a bird,
I would sing with a hoarse voice:
The land, which is battered by the storm, is a land that has been destroyed by the storms.
This storm-battered land,
This river that is always raging with our grief,
This angry wind that blows ceaselessly,
And that infinitely gentler dawn from the forests ......
- and then I would be died,
and even my feathers rotted inside the earth.
Why do I always have tears in my eyes?
Because I am y affected by the land ......
Nostalgia
Yu Guangzhong
When I was a child,
Nostalgia is a small stamp,
I am at this end,
mother is at that end.
When I grew up,
Nostalgia was a narrow boat ticket,
I was at this end,
The bride was at that end.
Later,
Nostalgia is a short grave,
I'm on the outside,
mother is on the inside.
And now,
Nostalgia is a shallow strait,
I'm at this end,
The mainland is at that end.
Land Modern Poetry 10The Yellow Land Itself
I washed my hands with chrysanthemum essence
My father grinned and said it was like a ploughman
The point is that my feet are in the dirt
I was thinking while I was poring glutinous rice
Ploughing, planting, everything is inscrutable
The ancestor of the highlanders
Is the land the father or the mother
Sunshine and rain are also important
The yellow earth itself is just like that
It needs a pair of hard-working hands to touch it
Potato
Somewhere between black and white
In its lifetime, it suffered death by a thousand cuts
The earth gave its most beloved heart to its mother, and the land is the most important thing to me.
An old Chinese doctor was touched
Eating potatoes often won't give you a stroke
"Corn"
The mouth isn't very sharp
The skin is a bit thick
The temperament is similar to bamboo
Flowers bloom all over the hillside in May
The wind blows up the shyness of a handful of corn
Fragile and shy, like the first love of life. Shyness, like life's first love
Can't stand any man-made tearing and torture
Sorghum
Sorghum is red, all over the hillside
Orchid Blossom rode a donkey to a faraway place
Faraway place, please open the poet's reverie
Wine's character warms up to predestination
Low, softly in the watery countryside of the south of the Yangtze River
Low, softly in the watery countryside of the South China Sea
Medium, in the Central PlainsHigh, in the corner of the blossoming flowers of Shandandandan
The Valley
Roots y embedded in the land
Leaves comparable to a straw raincoat
Wind blowing, the grain straightens up
Sunshine, the grain accumulates contemplation
Rain showering, the growth of the grain
The wind blowing, the grain straightens up
The sun, the grain accumulates contemplation
The rain showering, the grain grows up
The wind blowing, the grain straightens up
The rain showering, the grain grows up
A piece on the east mountain
A piece on the west mountain
The valley forests bow their heads towards the sun
Year after year, the sun and the moon turn back and forth
Years don't pass away, and the grains don't die
The people of the Shaan Bei region are all sons and daughters who have grown up on millet
The green beans
A circle of blue flames on the bottom of the pan
A dozen pieces of red-hot charcoal in the hearth. A dozen pieces of red-hot charcoal
On that hot summer day
My mother unloaded my backpack
A bowl of cool mung-bean water
relieved me of the summer heat
The Mountain Elm
The mountain elm tree's bark was stripped away
Only the white trunk remained
How to eat Guanyin soil?
It has broken people's bellies
Spring has come
The buds of the elm trees
are shy and compactly rounded
The peach and apricot blossoms have just finished falling
A bunch of tender green elm money
Not waiting for the leaves to spit out
It is full of waving to the flowers
Saved the father's generation
The elm tree is a great example of how the world is changing.
The yams are blossoming and their heads are white on top
If you want to see your sister, you should come by car
The water in the Yanhe River is very slow
The gongs and drums under the Baotashan Mountain are roaring
The flowers of Shandandandan are red
I haven't seen my brother's face for six months
The mountains are there, the water is there, and the people are there
The young people stayed behind to fall in love with each other
The people in the mountains have been in the same place for many years.
It's a must for all festivals,
and when guests come, they will be served with dishes.
A square table is placed on the bed,
and seven plates and eight bowls are served.
The people are right, the business is right,
and the people are right,
and the people are right,
and the people are right,
and the people are right.
Don't drink too much when you are out and about,
but don't be afraid to get into trouble.
The wine is bad for the gentleman, the water is bad for the road,
and the immortals are hard to get out of the wine enough.
A monkey turns into a man for ten thousand years,
and a man turns into a monkey for a cup of wine.