Free Banishment To know
Leave blank
Poor house, poor wall,
White room, empty.
The sound echoed silently
Like pumice hitting the water drifting manic and calm.
Only a black carpet, lying down.
A morning and a lifetime.
Without a trace, create for the imagination
Initial space.
Bluish fantasy
The sea that is sent to love
Melancholy blooming.
With a faint hint of moisture and saltiness,
I closed the windows and doors and trimmed the decorations
Even apply the red agent of the palette.
When I gave it to her, the flower of the sea hung low on its forehead, flooding with the melancholy of the deep sea.
I longed for her to jump with delight.
But I saw the red mark on the palm of her hand,
The bloby blue void
Instantly, dispel my fantasies.
Time, skimming your lips.
My love, flooded with blue fantasies
and an unfillable scar.
A wave of greenery
I wrote poetry. Moving handles, rotten erasers.
Memory is also a drag, a parade, a half-hanging forgetting.
Choose a pencil or a handle. Wow! Tonight is hard to get confused
Or hold the pencil and drive a lantern fish-like canyon that follows the thoughts of the reef
Write about the climax of the jam shell lost code stacked memory. Night tide, green gap. heart.
Everyone was afraid of the clock. Time becomes a tempting wound. Linglong's heart is hidden in tonight's poem.
It's like the long street of Paris. Lovers of love huddled around exchanging their false vows.
No heart. No.
I lost my way of writing poetry again, to think about others. Nietzsche, too, stripped himself naked and pleased others.
I should only write my poems. Write about the old conch, write about the dirty nature of Judah.
But I'm going to be like a gray rat with a red nose looking for green tides.
Alas, another rotten stroke.
Big fish
Far North. Green star. Oceans and glaciers.
The story goes that people have their mouths wide open like hunting crocodiles
Cut off the truth Morbid ignorance
No one has ever actually seen it before it flows into legends with lies and fabrications
The ocean floats up a gray ridge and moves
Iceberg-like blue fins
People call it the "big fish, and the laughing fisherman throws down a small net and smokes cigarette paper from the far north
The Kung Fu of Smoking, the Net, the Fishing, the small fish on the back of the huge gray ridge, full of a net
The story is getting bigger and bigger, and the big fish shocks people's imagination of the Far North
Everybody was in the dark except the fisherman who was salvaged
weed
Wading into the snow with nine complete footprints
There is little emotional involvement, and there is no hurry to turn around
Go straight.
Dry yellow, dark green weeds, quilts holding high in snow, sleeping on the head of the child.
Step on the wind Heavy switches
Turned the clock of the biological lifeblood.
Along the way are ancient imprints, no paging, etc! Wait for the breath of a weed.
In the abyss of the universe, black interstellar. weed! In the heart! Earth's! Interstellar! I can't stop going crazy, the weeds are growing, it's winter!
The black crow stared at me with bloody eyes. Are you going to crash?
snowfield. I can't step on the tenth complete footprint.
The weeds are still growing...
If there is no north
Ride a green-skinned bus around the city
Cruise from the beginning of time to the end of time
Silent meditation against the window, a white, clean as if life had passed
The sun was watching me, making my stiff body fiery and the sadness of dropping a rose
We forgot and loved the same year and the same town
northern. My roots.
As the car moved, I thought, if there was no north, how could that tragic line of poetry be generous enough to bring me to tears.
I crawled on the way out of the north,
It's hard to control and can't help but look back.
If there is no north,
What will my beloved winter be like?
Thinking about it, the car began to walk a second time.
Desolate forest
Silver satin overwhelmed the forest.
The river sighed and cut his throat
The rushing song froze like time.
The snowstorm trumpeted lies
Lies poison the forest
Rumors poison the truth the same
The silence of death.
The lush forest was thus alienated,
Like rumors isolate the truth.
Desolate forest. Tufted.
About the Author
Murong Baiyi, coordinates Hebei, Weishan poetry, prose, and also wrote novels. There is no fame, and has been exploring the deeper temperature of the text.
