Shepherding sheep to write poems, laughing at life "sheep herding poet" Li Songshan is married

Dahe Network News On December 27, Li Songshan, the "sheep herding poet" of Li Lou Village, Shangdian Town, Wugang City, got married!

Li Songshan, pen name "Goatee", fell ill and dropped out of school since childhood, and could only do simple farm work. In his hometown of Li Lou Village at the foot of the mountain, between sheep grazing on the river beach, he insisted on reading and learning to write poetry, faced with physical disabilities and hardships of life, enriched his heart with sunshine and enthusiasm, from the ignorance of poetry to the poetry he wrote was successively reprinted and published by newspapers, publications, etc. Last February, he was published 13 poems in a row by "Poetry Journal", which repeatedly attracted the attention of mainstream media such as CCTV, Guangming Daily, Henan Daily, and Dahe Network, and opened his poetry life by hard work and studiousness.

His wife, Sun Li, was a native of Xinyang, Henan, and was associated with Li Songshan because of poetry and blossomed with love. (Cai Changwei)

Sing this side to that side and:

send

/ Lee Song Shan

My room was empty,

Paz and Mary

Go back to the bookshelf. The chair becomes lighter.

Hourglass of time

Leak down the burning Sun Stone with your portrait

That's another you

Yearning for mexican love

The Fulawang River flows magically at the bottom of the sea

It's nine o'clock in the morning, before you leave

Three hundred and twenty hours.

The roses converge on the brilliance, but are more fendy.

flock

/ Sun Li

I don't hate the arrogance in you

It was the sound of green, it was nature

The clanging haunted me for three days

If I turned around, would it be a lifetime?

I heard its inner ripples

Loose feces

Spread out little by little with a small shovel,

The pungent smell of sheep dung annoyed him a little.

He has a beast in his heart,

But can't find a rose that can be sniffed deeply*

A flock of sheep, a few pieces of land reserved.

The sickness was faithful to him.

He stopped what he was doing,

Count the flocks of sheep and geese in the sky

Which one is just yourself?

He toe,

The wheat buried in the foot,

Silver earrings that flash the sun.

Note: * Here is a quote from the English poet Sigriev Sassson: "There is a tiger in the heart, and a deep smell of roses."

Oath aside, I want to say

Aren't there flocks of sheep?

Isn't there an endless wheat seedling?

Then we sat down at the edge of the wheat field and let us hold the rest of our lives

Wait for the sun to set

Drive the sheep home

Stuffy bell

His voice

From the ditch across the slope.

The one who used to talk like a quarrel,

Later the taciturn man.

Now, he was alone, in the dry ditch opposite

Talk to the shadow. The sun is shining

He and a cow that had been slaughtered

They will never again be angry over a handful of rations.

Stars of the night

When it rains, it's raining for four seasons

You snuggle in my arms

Unable to close the door

Yes, the rain continues to fall, and the sound of the rain remains

Stirred up the whole night, could not sleep, had to bloom

Until those stars rise from the body

Drop

She sent the location information,

On the high-speed train when you came.

And he was shaking peanuts in the ground.

Due to the torrential rain for several days, the peanut balls became mud balls.

Life is never short of suffering and prejudice.

Like the Rock FloodPlain Dam in her eyes,

Twinkling stars and fishing fires,

As he said, "The apricots are ripe,

And she's in the almonds.

The moon that does not sink

Tsvetaeva, the depth of love under the flowing lilies

Will you keep running?

Will they snuggle up like this forever?

There are thoughts, looking at the ancient moon in Tang poetry

Does not sink

Tsvetaeva, I know that we have the same loneliness

Can be sick with the soul

Didn't lose to drums

Tsvetaeva, you should write poems praising him

traction

The car was dragged across the road between the two mountains,

"We are led by the nose by life."

The four men fell into a collective silence.

Wipers separate raindrops.

What can we say?

About floods and epidemics, the moon and flowers.

Fly in the dark

Do you still have ideals?

In autumn, I see the ideal tree

All the leaves have fallen

I don't dare. But I know that spring is stored in the roots

The part I flew was too