A kind of happiness, is the monk in the desert oasis of water encountered survivor.
It reminds me of the poem last night after the Grand Sood Lament.
Monthly poetry reading last time she was just like the original as disapproval Dickinson, impetuous heart will always be those voices full of noise, until tired, they would understand that no one stream at households have a lonely soul, brilliant. The face of the vast empty poetry, bustling heart needs a plain return.
Read their names, we thought she was Tibetan or, as the central warehouse Gyatso, or that she received the call of Falun, or that she is the Bayan Har snow lotus, or that the heart is that clean luxuriantly in the grasslands.
She even let us think of the song "Dear girl, I love you", as we may think that she has a warm heart.
No, she is a poetry of the patients Nordic women, we do not know if anyone sang her songs like a warm, fresh air only know Davos also can not save her lungs.
Lonely night, I sleep quietly bringing back memories of this poem:
In our world full of sunshine
I just garden bench
And the bench that the sun cat
I sat there
A letter in my arms
A unique message
That is my dream ... ...
I know there will still be hot in the middle of the night the tears, the body is so humble, there is a soul, such as the winter bloom, fragrance and elegance.
Almost no poetry in the North Island to Europe exotic drink the water, he does not ask, do not go to answer, he only with open eyes, beheld the West from the east, and from the West and beheld the east. Today, China and Europe, trade, such as rolling of the water, a poet, only a pure expression of the poetry.
Our lives, may really need a new make bullets fly.
Impulsive and cold air needs a Qiang Lu fly. Zhang Mazi and son of the dialogue is very interesting, Mu Zha (Mozart) music and bandits, the details may seem absurd, yet we perceive, whether born in where the home of the soul need art blooming flower.
Want to read a Grand Sood, read distressed, when the future generations with the performance, Symbolism, Futurism to sing praises of the time, I just think, this inner noble poet, she is our desire to ordinary people have ordinary life, parks, benches, sun, water lover's tenderness.
Perhaps, only needs to read her heart and lonely, and can read her words the essence of thinking.
Now I, now sit as a rose, accompanied by relentless wind and the fate of the poet to endure.
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