Who knows which poems Tomb-Sweeping Day can recite?

Father, I follow the narrow road of Qingming

Come to you, April rain

Grow like grass in my sky.

Father, this solar term is empty.

Only memories are unrestrained green leaves,

Derived grass seed is a word you can't cough up.

Father, those days were in rags.

The passing wind tore up what you gave me.

Many dreams. But father!

I always believe that no one can steal youth!

Behind you, I am often alone.

Look up at the sky. High above the clouds

Lightning flashed in your cold eyes, illuminating the whole rainy season.

Like a light in front of a grave, it is always on.

Never go out.

Many free beams wedge into my blood.

Stand up tired, father, I hear you.

The voice of hunger is shouting, making spring silent.

The road sign you cast is rusty and still stubbornly points forward.

"Go black, go black.

Go straight to the end of blood. "

Your teachings stuck into my body like nails.

The other side of the unknown is rippling in the water.

Father, this season breeds pain.

I don't want my memory to make me cry.

I just want to hold your hand.

Swear on the grass in front of your grave that no one can squander it.

My youth! No one can unload it.

The road in my bag!

————————————————————————

Spring in the cemetery

Gansu Li manqiang

Yes, everything has really calmed down.

I can't calm down, just those memories of yesterday.

Look, even the grass is green in the wind.

There are also postures of memory.

Spring came here before me;

You breathe with three little flowers.

Forget with a stone

Don't say anything superfluous to me.

Cross the threshold of spring

I still want to tell you:

Some people live around us like flies.

We can't drive them away

Someone turned decisively.

Become hard loess.

I have gradually adapted to this changeable life.

—————————————————————————————

sacrifice

April, a drawn sword, dazzling, red eyes.

In April, a white rose is full of blood and bright red.

It rains in succession during the Qingming Festival. The wind stole our sacrifice.

-those swaying banknotes grow into leaves.

Cutting grass doesn't necessarily scare snakes.

This is what I learned when I was looking for shoes under the waterfall.

The singing of the cup comes from the female wolf who lives in seclusion in the canyon.

Yan, I'm tired. Peach blossom twisted its crazy dance steps for a long time.

——————————————————————————

Sweep the grave (in memory of the dead)

Kneel at the grave

My knee hurts a little.

I smell dirt and new grass.

And the smell of rain.

My ancestors lay at my feet and slept peacefully.

They haven't had a body for years.

In the darkness, only souls depend on each other and talk to each other.

Leaves fall to the roots-a person who lives elsewhere will eventually return to his ancestral home.

I wipe it with my hand.

The mottled stone tablet is engraved with

Their names and years of birth and death.

Those words covered with wind and frost

When I get closer, I can still vaguely see some blushes.

I propose a toast to my ancestors.

Then slowly bend down and kowtow three times.

After the wine penetrated into the soil, there were traces of moisture.

Like a sandstorm blowing into my eyes.

Just like our ancestors came into this world.

——————————————————————————

Qingming misses friends.

On a moonless night

Play piccolo

The flute filled the desolate space.

It was also this season when you left.

Yingshanhong is beautiful.

Bloom into a landscape in front of your grave.

Everyone is reluctant to leave.

All eyes are full of sadness for you.

It is also lonely in the Qingming rain.

I spent the whole night

Play a piccolo you left behind.

————————————————————————————

I curled up my little heart and waited for the last audience of time. The tassel on the shore, she chuckled, and the veins melted into my heart, like a flowing aquatic plant.

How boundless the twilight is, a kite hovers overhead, circling away, covering me with its sharpest and stingiest eyes under an ancient clock. From the deepest tremor, I raised my less tenacious fingers and tried to touch a stone to stop me from moving forward at night. The search stopped in mid-air turned into a scarlet poppy.

Listening to the whispers from the depths of heaven, every step makes my pale ankles tremble slightly. The birds in the sky left their white feathers, so I couldn't hide my past whereabouts. I knelt down to the pale soul, hollowed out my heart, rode on the flying feathers and vented my afterlife.

God always wants to take us away, but he never tells us the way to the afterlife. I'm looking for a secluded path to Naihe Bridge. Even if I go to heaven or hell with all my thoughts in my life, I will still have the pain of whipping.

I don't know how the temples in the distance, those lingering incense, reached the next world. Quietly holding a stubborn stone, carefully put it in the pious palm of your foot, I believe that the temperature of your hand will let you measure the size of my heart.

————————————————————————————

The breeze blew.

The pale face of the deceased

All the graves have been allocated.

The click of my knuckles.

Wandering at night for five years

I repeatedly ignored the cracks in the bones of the dead.

Tomb-Sweeping Day, seventeen.

Seventeen years ago, Tomb-Sweeping Day.

I'm like a colorful checkers.

With rice wine, fruit and meat.

And the RMB in the other world.

Greet ancestors you have never met.

In adults, "beep, beep." . . . "In the chimney.

Memories of ancestors

No one who mourns every year is implanted.

Tomb-Sweeping Day after the 17th National Congress.

Like smoke from an adult's mouth.

Slowly expand and disappear

My relatives and friends all died in my wandering.

Grandma is at peace with cancer.

My uncle was killed in an accident.

A friend was stabbed to death in a disco.

The partner committed suicide for love.

A face within reach

I can't miss it

Close your eyes, their thin souls.

Just like the swaying weeds in the grave.

A depressing murmur.

People who mourn every year will not miss it.

People who can't miss are implanted in their hearts.

Today is Tomb-Sweeping Day and the weekend.

Only at such a rare time

I have time to miss those who have left.

Write down such a poem

I don't know. Many years after my death.

Who will remember a man named-big rascal?

Clear in the rain (outside)

Rain flowers are in full bloom.

Tears-filled flowers

The petals of Qinglingling are pieces.

Fall in front of my eyes

Salute to your limpid palm.

Light for people far away.

Missing years

Quiet spray

Like pigeon feathers in Gao Xiang.

Bits converge into thoughts in my heart.

Walk along the rugged path

Hold the candle and watch the walk.

Step by step into the familiar past.

Walk into a kind of

Comfort and ethereal in spiritual collision

This is a sad season.

Memory and nostalgia

A silent and plain poem

In the rain and clear sky

Swear by the sky and the earth

Emotional recitation

Miss my mother

Euphemism of rain

Is that your greeting?

A lamp that never goes out all night

Is that your worried look?

Mother's years fall in the wind chimes.

We will come to you again.

Go in and enjoy it.

Your deep and broad maternal love

This season makes us miss it.

Let the tears in our hearts flow gently.

In this land where you have worked hard.

A dress, a pair of cloth shoes and a crutch.

It belongs to us forever.

Say a paragraph.

An unforgettable day. That's you.

The last few years of life

Miss my mother

We put our mother's expectations

In the form of tears

Wave it and become a flag.

Hold high

The distance of life

————————————————————————————

Miss the foreign public

I saw it on the hillside behind.

There is a tall figure.

fail

Cover with fresh pods.

He is my grandfather.

In autumn, the back hill is covered with pods.

Grandpa's figure

Take a walk back and forth in the evening breeze

His white hair

His thick white hair.

Burning violently in the sunset

I saw grandpa's white hair burning.

This is me in the sunshine from other provinces.

See an old thing

It was grandpa's retirement day.

Now I can only be in memories and yearning.

Accept grandpa's kind voice

Grandpa is a quiet man.

Sunshine in the back mountain

Interwoven with melodious bells

My grandfather

Walking on the back hill

He washed his hands in the chrysanthemum.

Breathe in the wheat waves

Under the sun

Grandpa's eyes

Trance and humidity

His simple life

Light it for us.

A distant night of nostalgia

I can't forget it.

Grandpa's illness for many years

On him.

It smells of earth.

Of course I won't know.

Grandpa will leave us.

Sleep in the dirt

I haven't returned to my hometown for a long time.

I imagine where grandpa sleeps.

Full of pods

Roots and whiskers of plants

Infiltrated into grandpa's body

Grandpa will rely on them.

There is sunshine and air.

Keep close contact

————————————————————————————

◆ Tomb (outside one)

Sixty years of boredom

Also known as growing old together

Dense leaves, alone at night

Brush eardrum

I saw the grave.

A gloomy smile

Across the Huaihe River, muddy streets.

Kneel in the wind and cry.

We are there.

Abang: Small family.

Chinese pine grows in my father's favorite soil.

Firecrackers were turned on for the second time.

◆ Qingming

On this day, we are by your side again.

warm oneself

Graveyard keeper

Pass a stick and open your mind.

More and more people

Haunt the grave.

More and more fireworks

Gather in a village

Dad will come next Sunday, he thought.

A person, sit with you

————————————————————————————

day of mourning

Clear rain is not tears.

This is a continuous decline, but

A little sad?

When the drizzle falls like tears

How did the burning Mingbi become a butterfly?

On the silent green hills

Scattered with pieces of thoughts

Who can be on this day?

Pick them all up and go home.

So on this day, we will all burst into tears.

It doesn't matter whether there are tears or not.

What matters is relatives.

Can you stop and have a rest?

Will you chew with us?

That plate is hard.

It has been raining for thousands of years.

Drop by drop in my heart

Clear rain is not tears.

The days with tears are sunny.

————————————————————————————

day of mourning

Qingming, a jealous woman painted her love.

Dear, the ghost is sitting in the wick. Tell ghosts to sit in the wick and write poems.

Many language fragments are just what I imagined.

Every separation of the world is her colorful lie.

It's a wake after a scene.

This is the first sweet spring of new land excavation.

Lonely eyes stand out

It's a surfer who pops up after spring and knocks at the door.

The wake is when I am alone against the wall.

As clear as frost, my heart is desolate

Comment |0

20 10-04-05 10:28 enthusiastic users

Dedicated to Tomb-Sweeping Day (poem)

( 1)

Is it accidental or inevitable?

Unintentional or coincidence?

The sky-your face

Why is it this time every year?

I began to cry darkly.

Earth-your heart

Why did you start to tremble for no reason?

As if to subvert the whole earth.

(2)

The wind rustled.

Rainy

People are always afraid and sad.

I stood quietly.

In front of a pile of graves

Pay tribute to every wandering and lonely soul

I heard you.

You are howling. You're smiling.

All the voices and winds, sobbing

(3)

I wonder if it is a pile of loess.

Or is the dog tail grass swaying alone in the grave?

There are also inscriptions mottled after being washed away by the wind and snow.

Like a sharp sword

Stabbed my eyes.

Cut my lacrimal gland

therefore

Meaningless tears

Wet my lips and teeth-bitter

(4)

They all bowed there.

Although the road is muddy

Brand-new trousers are covered with yellow mud.

They are still reluctant to leave like statues for a long time.

The incense is rolled up.

Firecrackers roar

Is it to mourn the dead souls?