Modern Poetry: Night

Modern Poetry: Night 1

The earth has hit the rocks and sunk

They are all silent

I am the only one who opens my mouth to shout

But I have tasted the bitterness of the night

Loneliness doesn't need to talk about

Loneliness floats on a wave of despair

Loneliness is the way of life

Loneliness freezes it all in a moment

Loneliness has to cover up

Loneliness, maybe we know it Loneliness, it needs to be covered up

Loneliness, maybe you know

Loneliness, looking at each other and cheering

Loneliness

It belongs to loneliness alone

The night sky after the rain is so clear

There are a few lonely stars

There are a few lonely souls

Who are not willing to be lowly

Burning, crossing the sky

And they are not afraid to go down, to fall.

The moon dreams in the clouds

In her dreams, she meets the sun

She believes that the world will be bright

No more shadows

They both share the same dream

One of them has been turned into dust

One of them still hangs in the sky

Modern Poetry: Night 2

A gold hairpin

A poignant love that has been in pain for a thousand years

Under the wings of the magpies, it is interpreted into a song

Once a year, we gaze at each other with great affection

Letting the surging thoughts become a river

Picking a piece of warmth and planting a rainbow

In the auspicious light of the Tanabata Festival, it murmurs like a dream

It is a pity that

Nowadays, the golden hairpin has become a symbol for the world's most beautiful people. p>

Nowadays, the golden calf has left its horn

on the road to heaven

and the cowherd's obsessive hope has been burned to death

There is a song

that was doomed to a fate when it was just opened

There is a kind of love

that burns the heart and dries up the tears before it knows that it's a mistake

I don't know

The bells ring at midnight

The moonlight on the vineyard is melancholy

It's the sadness of the angels

I'll take a petal from my heart

And I'll count it with the beans

One by one, one by one

Until next year, I will count it all.

All the way to next fall.

Modern Poetry: Night 3

Fantasy treads on loneliness

From far away

Acacia song roams through the starlight

Swirls in the quiet night

A past event is made into a poem

Written in the 14th of February

Fine rain falls

The sky is full of the new idea of acacia

Released a little bit in the coolness

The warmth drives away the warmth and the warmth is released. >

Warmth drives away the cold of early spring

Thoughts fly with the temperature

Draw a picture of holding hands

Paste it next to the door of my heart

One word

is enough to make spring flowers bloom in my heart

Cold spells take over the sky

Romantic rains are drifting in

The lights are misty

Who's walking hand in hand? Walking hand in hand

Footprints on the newly built square

The air is moist

Softening the night's reverie

Another February 14th

The same, but not the same

Modern Poetry: The Night 4

It's the iron wheels themselves that are rolling forward

The solid iron wheels

Perhaps they are softened by the load of nostalgia

The iron wheels have been filled with nostalgia.

I can't break the neon of the night

The colorful dragon on the bridge

The quiet beauty of the Xiangjiang River

The fishing boats, the lights, the moonlight, the flickering

A beautiful bookmark

Close to my hometown, even closer to the warmth

The scenery behind me is far away from the home of the people who have been there since the turn of the head

I'm sure that I can see it from here.

I was far away from the rusty assembly lines, the sweaty rented rooms, and

the colorful nightlife

I was silent in the sound of the railroad tracks

I held a handful of loneliness as if nothing had happened

and the pain in my heart

I had a lost and bewildered gaze

toward the end of the night

I had a good feeling that I would be in the right place at this time. truth.

Emotions have lost their fulcrum here,

and I am curled up in a dark corner watching the distant stars in the night sky outside the window.

Emotionally exposed vulnerability can only rely on the ink lying on the desk,

Ink flowing into a poem,

Poetry word by word pouring is my blood flowing in the lingering tenderness.

You can hear the sadness and loneliness resonating in the poem,

and life will take in the light and heat spread by the sun.

I'm sorry you can't hear my poem, I would like to sing it to you,

I can't escape the fate of a poet without a song,

This life is a poet without a song.

I regret that my poems are tunes without songs.

In the starry sky, the sound of singing and whispering comes out,

The shooting star falling at night is the colorful cloud that I prayed for you,

I waited,

waited,

waited for the legend of the colorful cloud chasing the moon.

Listening to the rain

A city is weeping, a city is crying. The people in the city are listening to the rain, and the people outside the city are telling stories that have not been forgotten in the dust for a long time. The people in the story have you and me, but no longer young, can not say a passionate ambition, look at each other devoutly and expressionless, watching the rain fall listening to the sound of the rain silently through life.

My way

Today is has changed,

Time did not flow on my body.

The gentle sea floated the first nadir, the low point of my life.

I am a body crawling in the dark abyss,

Deep in the circle of ego and self I can't find my way,

My soul shed under the shrine creeps on the dark ground to find my way.

I am a body crawling in the dark abyss,

Mist covers the night sky of this southern city;

The aperture of my eyes can no longer feel the temperature of the nightfall,

I don't know how long it will take for me to enjoy the solitude of that moment.

Listen to the wind

Vows in the wind lie in the grave of youth,

Rain soaks the dust of the grave.

It messes up the makeup of the vow and flowers the tombstone of the grave.

Listen to the sound;

Negligent and heavy, if any,

Youthful vows lie gasping for breath under the tombstone.

Listen, someone is crying,

Crying about the oath of youth, crying about the tombstone in the wind.

Listen, it's the wind!

The wind of the rocks of the mountains to the north.

If it were not for if

If time could stay,

If life could stand still;

perhaps, I would not be here.

If the scholar had no dreams,

If the sky had no colored clouds;

Perhaps, I wouldn't be here.

If time could pass,

If youth could fly;

perhaps, I would not be here.

If you hadn't withered your face,

If I hadn't loved the years;

maybe, I wouldn't be here.

If you could have walked through my world,

If I hadn't stopped at your shoulder;

Maybe, I wouldn't be here,

If not if!

Would I be there?

Modern Poetry: Night 6

When the stars are shining

I'm still at my desk thinking of wandering

Meditating on my cause

Not letting my heart worry a bit more

Midnight snowflakes

Cutting through the purple and black of the night

Seeing through the candlelit windows

Wanting to know when you're coming back

The wind carries his dreams

And quietly slips through the window

And gladly falls on my shoulder

And soothes my restless heart

Finally, I push open the door of the long-silent house

And walk on the snowy night

And let the cold snowy winds

Disperse the sorrows in my heart

And leave a deep mark with every step I take.

If the wind and snow can't smooth him out

But as long as there's the warmth of the sun

He'll turn into a clear spring that reaches deep into the earth

Modern Poetry: Night 7

When accustomed to a certain habit

One day that habit suddenly disappears

What kind of feeling will it be in your heart

Disturbed

The night, it's always so easy to get nostalgic. I've always been nostalgic

Thinking about all these things, I found that the night is so quiet

On a quiet night, my heart is so restless

It's as if this night is singing a one-man show that belongs to me alone

In the show there are complexities, helplessness, emptiness, anticipation, and so on

Is it that I've become sentimental, or is it that this is all true in the first place

I don't understand, and I don't want to understand.

I've been asking myself over and over again how I've changed.

Did I become more mature, or did I become more corrupt with reality?

My heart was in turmoil

I covered up and answered against my will: I haven't changed, I'm just more of a woman than I used to be

Then I laughed a lot

I don't know how much of the story I was hiding behind the laughs

Whether it's happiness or sadness is unknown

At least I'm thankful for what I've been through

I'm thankful for what I've been given

I'm thankful that I've been given this opportunity to be a part of something.

I'm grateful to those who helped me

That's enough

Modern Poetry: Night 8

This winter, I waited for the first snow,

The beautiful snowflakes bloomed with my thoughts,

Just like the smoke of a farmhouse,

It was tangled up in the windy and snowy night.

Crossing the thorny meadow,

looking for your last breath,

the rest of the fragrance of you forever,

so I know what it is like to have a heartache.

You said that this life is not to be forgotten,

I am guarding the corner of the end of the world,

I hope that you return to see this season of snowflakes in full bloom,

so I am no longer lonely, wandering.

I have been to the place where you had longed for,

I saw the blue ocean resembling the melancholy in your eyes,

I heard the cold wind still shouting,

The wanderer has not yet returned.

You said that the time is too long and the earth is too long.

I sighed that the wind and the moon are too far apart, and the sky is high and the road is far.

If you still want to wander,

please remember that there is someone who is always there.

I'm not a lonely tree,

It's just that the snow covers me, not cold.

You took the whole world away,

but left me behind.

The snow,

fell into my heart,

wet my thoughts,

broke my thoughts.

Modern Poetry: Night 9

Tonight, the moon is in a jade pot

The ink is like a painting

I've set up a fire

To boil a touch of shyness

No matter if it's a piece of love that's being boiled

Or a cup of compulsion

I'll be situated on the other side of the river in a clear and silent place

Waiting to be appeased

****.

Tonight, the flowers are beautiful

The ink is so sweet

I'll set up a fire

And I'll boil the word "love"

No matter whether it's a passionate obsession

Or a cold scent

I'll sit in a lonely city

And I'll hold on to my nobility

And I'll wait to be warmed up by you.

* *

Tonight, the night is like water

Ink shadows float

I'll set up a fire

and boil a pool of spring water

No matter if it's the blue waves of the sea

or the bottom of the lake, I'll be at the mouth of the dream of Moyin

and I'll put my love on a bay to wrap you in my dream

Waiting for you to fall in the water, and then I will be at the mouth of the dream of Moyin.

I will wait for you to fall into

a nightly splendor laid out for you

* *

Tonight, I will sleep deeper

I will wait for you to become a charm in the charming ink

Your cunning eyes across the shore

Have you ever lurked in the night and read the fireworks released from my brow

* *

Tonight, I will salvage a pot of Zen thoughts

I will salvage a pot of Zen thoughts

Sitting alone with time

Holding an ink brush in my hand

Determined to be persistent

Dipping into the drowning water of 3,000 to write all of my thoughts about you

Modern Poetry: The Night 10

The gardenia in front of the window has bloomed and then thanked

Can't smell the familiar fragrance

Luckily, there are small buds of young oranges in milky color

Trying to blossom.

The season of autumn

The temperature is still good

Just a little bit more nostalgic sadness

I've been organizing the clothes of that season on this black night

Each piece

is a piece of

Clueless memories

I can't remember what happened in the past, but I'm not sure if I can remember what happened in the past.

Only

letting thoughts like water

pouring into tonight's humid air

the rain is like a song

accompanying tonight's sleepless night

I want to

put these packed clothes

along with this melancholy sadness

into a locked closet

and throw the key away. Throwing the key away

Carrying on my back

The bag I packed with my own hands

Going to the faraway place I've been longing for

How I would like to

Go to the place I've been longing for

In this season of travel

To see the place I've been remembering

The place I've been remembering for a long time, and I can't forget

The place that smells of gardenia

That autumn season, when the gardenia was in the air

The place that smells of gardenia

That autumn