No poetic life

Placed on a shelf own poetry, the occasional look at recently, the last poem was written in 1985, from there the future, they no longer wrote a poem.

Although the life of hardship and when young, but the idea simple, concentric goodness, filled with vision, imagination. Every detail of life would be suggestive and exciting, poetic waves. Spring Thunder Waking of Insects, of all things recovery, good rain knows season, moisten things silently, flat out seeing a visitor Chushan Gu, very thick grass near Quewu. Summer night, look up the vault of heaven, in the span of the galaxy to find cows Weaver, day night cool bands such as water, to see cows lying Vega. Walking in the dark of night, with people and understand why the moon line, raise my eyes to the moon, which confused the dots on the moon, once wrote a poem: "Qionglouyuyu spring outside world, osmanthus wine news several times; For like the moon was a guest, Who knows what Wu Gang is the heart? "autumn wind blowing, swaying golden crop, is the empty mountains of new rain, the weather come late fall. Winter sky snow and distress: "sough strong westerly winds, winter's night beneath the bitter snow, Xiao Guanjie white office, capped cover fieldwork."

After aging, wear and life Williams, who has become proficient mice, poetry, and I slowly slipped away. City illuminated the night sky, the Milky Way never entered into my eyes. Niu Lang Weaver but hundreds of millions of light years away from stars, not Xianxin look. The moon hung in the sky, is still so round, but I know that in addition to crater, there was nothing she is also no. Middle of the night with sleepy eyes misty brew milk for the children, washing diapers for the children during the day, love poetry is no longer beautiful. Driving amazing passing and over, hear the birds chirping, evening dew will not stick to my clothes on. Only a parasol outside do not know when felled lost, do not feel the summer cicadas sing Land West, South crown off thinking to infringe. Dunshou in the gorgeous house, the number of deposits Festival with spittle, Chung is not what poetry is also up.

Farewell, my poem.