The poet Qing Ming on the banks of the Miluo River copied the poems
Clear
Woo Min
The green hillside is grave again
A bunch of new wounds, this time gone
It's not a crutches that the years
Daddy, it's not a week either
Six mothers-in-law who did not get wet rice
The second joy of the wind and prosperity
He pilots the domestic MG
Just sent him to life
But it didn't get to the next stop
Not confused, even farther away from the flower nails
It seems to be his daughter-in-law
You can reach out and pinch it
The woman who leached the water
There was a tuft of new mud
One, two, three
Busy
Cuckoo in the fields of early spring
While urging Arbor to sow the seeds quickly
While holding back tears
The sister doesn't cry, the sister doesn't cry
sacrifice to
□ still water is deep
Qingming and a rain on the south bank of the river
The past is cloudy
A cup of turbid wine and a half cup of tea
Incense candles are also attached
Affection is far away
Although there is no goodbye, it seems to meet
I want to send acacia to the heavens
Tears turn into raindrops
Mo Dao is not as good
Tsukasa flowers
Qingming Festival Sweep
□ basho night rain
Loose road, docking the rainy intestines of April
Wattles, shawl scattered
Stand up the oppressive torture with the only remaining paleness
The entire space-time of loess moss solidification
Respectfully mark the Barrier of Guanshan
One pillar of incense, three kowtows
Walk through the spiritual highlands of the mighty red dust
Copy some fragments, some home and country feelings
Confession, relief, as monotonous as the base color of a tombstone
My torment is tired of whitewashing the past
The cold mist was holding on, and the window of the heart cracked
A sharp knife crept in, allowing the whole body to tremble
hope
□ Tian Cen
The journey home is long, long
A tree blossoms to see prosperity
The hillside was full of wisteria flowers
This year's flowers are fragrant and fragrant
It was as if he had harnessed his father's former ploughshare
Purple clouds between the fields
Greetings to the cousins of the same travelers
You are glorious to return home
Borrow a ray of sunshine to pay tribute to the ancestors
Insert a bunch of paper flowers to send mourning
What never forgets is the thought
Only love can not be disappointed
Mom's pace was slow
She looked back step by step
Seems to be looking
The cloth shoes that were once left on the field
She told me with her eyes
Goodbye Kangqiao
Every year
□ Wu Lei
Burn the last piece of paper money
It's time for me to go down the hill
This place is too high
I couldn't breathe
But I have to come back every year
Let me cry and shout
Parents are always silent
Qingming rain
□ Yellow Oriole
My body has not yet fit into the spring
It just happened to rain as well
A festival about rain and mourning
This is a prelude to the natural climate
A festival that precedes the awakening of eggs in the permafrost
And of course, it's also a little sad holiday
The rain is obedient
From the beginning to the tender green branches
Go down in turn and go up in a piece of soil
Caught in a dormant dream
In this drizzle
It seems that even my eyes make me sad
In the wilderness, when everything is budding
I don't feel a little bit of spring
When it rains, the heavens and the earth are mostly silent
And ticking is like a human whimper
The soil compacted under those soil bags
Buried is once closely around life
Tightly for the sake of desire to live
Never let myself loosen up a bit
Now the fields are about to be broken by the green
Floating a layer of earth air, I was in the rain
Returned with a full load because of nothing to ask for
Speak with clouds
□ Jiang Xin'ai
Last night my mother came to see me again
I didn't leave the piece and left
Just forgot to take the footprints with them
I tightened the time and chased after the square
The stone bench stood alone in the morning fog in a daze
The sky is full of cotton
Mother was looking at me in the high cotton
Wave your hand, wave your hand again
The old locust tree next to it was bald and green
The branches were covered with the smiles of my mother's former glory
The rain in April fills the sky
Spring Breeze's breathing began to quicken
Grass raised her trembling hands
Running, shouting
Suddenly, from the silent blue
Let out a low sigh
I want a bouquet of clear cherry blossoms
□ Nange
In front of the door, begonia flowers
Open the delicate season of March
The red and white color goes straight to the qingming of April
I think of my parents' graves every year
Those swaggering paper flowers, plastic flowers
Lifelessly pounding the wind's whimpers
That hanging yellow paper money
Tie up the value of their lives
Begonia flowers are in the bushes of cherry blossoms
Can also be compared to her beauty
Begonia's chest
Is it seawater or river water?
Roots deep underground
Suddenly the coffin of the parents
Weeds at the head of the grave
Always haunted in dreams
The parents passed in silence
This Qingming I want is cherry blossoms
I'm going to pick a bundle of weeds that cover the grave
Cherry blossoms cry in the wind
Her tears would make me blush
Sprinkle the rivers of your hometown