I do not know which one of the thousand years of the sharp wave has been glimpsed by me, creating the soul of this life is the nightmare poetry soul.
From Liaoyuan time and space came a few murmurs and sings, which turned into ink flowing on rice paper, and has never existed in the silent world.
Sometime over a dozen years ago, when I opened the yellow pages of a book, the beauty of rhythm and words attracted my childish soul.
As the old friend revisited, I knocked on the door of poetry.
"Raise your head to look at the bright moon, and look down at your hometown." Although you did not understand the emotion in this poem, you liked it very much. Perhaps some emotions do not need to say a lot, and they naturally enter the heart in chanting and portraying, and they are silent like spring rain.
After a few more years, the torrent of time pushed me to grow, new things came into my world, and some treasures that I treasured as a child gradually disappeared into my memories. But whenever I opened the poetry again, photo The beauty of soul will conquer me again. I began to imagine the world in poetry.
The misty moonlight pours down into the clouds, reflecting Su Dongpo, who asks the wine about the sky; it looks like the sun is shining again, and the strange and dangerous Shu Tao makes people look sideways to the composition http://wWw.ZuoWenwang.Net/Long The night is full of sky. Who is pulling the pipa and can't help letting Sima Baiju of Jiangzhou tear his wet blue shirt? Between lines, seemingly monotonous, is deep or open-minded emotion.
I grow in poetry.
Spring and Jingming, life awakened from a deep sleep, peach blossoms scorched, Yingyingyanwu, I stood in the flowering season of life, thinking of myself in previous years, I suddenly understood that "every year is similar, but every year is different." Upanishad.
It was the poetry that started to understand what life is and what time is.
I used to think that I hadn't grown much, but whenever I saw the old photos of my childhood and the original tender handwriting, I suddenly realized that I had gone through such a long time. "The deceased is like a husband!" I remembered the sigh of Confucius by the river.
Looking back on the past, the poem has never been absent from my life, but he never spoke, soaked my life silently, and rushed like blood in my pulse.
The poetic beauty is not as shocking as I was when I was shocked at first, but like a drizzle on a spring night quietly falling into my dreams. The dream was also poetic, and the heartbeat was stirred a little bit.
So I was conquered by the United States.The address of this article: 600 words written by the US conquered in this way http://www.zuowenwang.net/p/249599.html Reprinted please indicate the source!