Ancient Asian plate
It's like a silent history book.
A chapter, a fault, suddenly
An active Chinese character.
Intensive area
The Dabie Mountains.
Arrange East Branch
It's my hill.
Scattered into poetry.
Published in a contemporary poetry magazine.
Sticky loess
The face of ancestors and vicissitudes
Banjar
It's a title.
Or a flag.
This is my copyright.
Plagiarism flinch.
My hills
Rivers and forests
Sunset and birdsong
Wetlands with luxuriant grass
There are winding hills.
Or a ballad full of light dust.
My ancestors had wrinkled ravines.
With the back of the rickets.
It's here.
I don't know which generation to start.
I don't know which county it belongs to.
My ancestors used strong arms.
And the original singing voice.
On this flat loess land
Creeping tillage pastoral songs
I am the son of the hill.
Except for my hills
I also learned my ancestors.
With his low voice
Write down a string of characters.
Like a watershed at the foot.
Rows of rows extend eastward.
It has been spreading far away.
Return to the Asian plate.
Close to the Dabie Mountains.
Small town, I measured every inch of moonlight with your footsteps.
Moonlight in big cities looks timid.
There are always some corners.
Lost in the moonlight
My county town is the people of big cities.
Work diligently and conscientiously
Often in a rather bright night.
Let out a beam of moonlight.
Like a mother's needle and thread
Frill on my intimate shirt.
A hint of thread came out.
The appearance of a small town
Such feelings
Suitable for gradual integration
So, I use my footsteps.
To measure every inch of moonlight.
A naughty star
Fall into the roadside stall the girl's pocket.
A girl with shame
Bow down the moonlight
Taking advantage of the shallow moonlight
Hurry up
Oh little town
I use my footsteps
To measure every inch of your moon
Use the moonlight
To fasten every tightly closed heart window.
When I was planting rice again
My watershed every season.
Every household entered the busy farming season one after another.
From grain rain to frost.
Artemisia and horse food and the plants in the watershed.
The seeds were full of seeds.
At this time, a bunch of seedlings on the big plate seedling field.
It's like a neighbor's little sister waiting to go out.
A heavy heart
Let every household care for her.
Catching up with each other and going to transplanting rice seedlings
Mother, sister, and even every man in charge.
They are all experts in transplanting rice seedlings.
Women can plow their fields and harrow men.
And the calm and flowing attitude.
It's much better than writing a few lines of text.
Mother holds her days in her hands.
Hope and youth are planted in the paddy field that father has just completed.
My sister put up her long hair to make her face look beautiful.
Ripples in the paddy field
Father's loud bullwhip
Circled around in mid air.
Intercepted by a skilled whistle.
To accompany a black Bullock with a rake in the ground.
A busy farming schedule.
Spread out in my watershed
Now my watershed
I can never find another cow's ear.
The sound of the machine drowned the slash and burn of our forefathers.
Only the silhouette of the Loess facing the sky.
Still kowtow and crawl in the paddy field.
Agile throughout the May.
The season is only in my watershed.
It can be seen clearly.
The seasons in cities change on everyone's clothes.
Even in girls' sexy lipsticks.
Only in the countryside season, lying on the loess ground.
On my watershed
When I was planting rice again
You can see the raincoat.
And a season of spring away from the frog's voice.
In the paddy field, aunt looked up.
Smiling at the girl who was left far behind.
Oh, my watershed.
When I was planting rice again
Editor in chief: Zhang Tonghui
音嵐，男，微名老鷹。肥東縣。中學時代開始詩歌寫作，早年有散文和詩歌作品散見於安徽人民廣播電臺、《新華日報》副刊、《合肥晚報》副刊、《黃河詩報》、民辦《淮風》詩刊、《鎮江日報》副刊等媒體，近期作品多活躍於純文學網落微刊。崇尚簡約，喜歡在走心的文字裡淺吟凝眸，喜歡在淡淡的墨香裡臨硯讀貼。個人詩觀:樸素地生長，樸素地和世界對話。
閱讀更多 0090後網絡作家部落 的文章
