Zhang Fuhua's poems

I have been wandering for half my life, but I have been persistent all my life. I only got a thousand miles of cigarettes and willows, and Wan Yan cried until this prosperous, fleeting and carefree life ended. At the end of the song, people dispersed, candles turned to ashes, my dreams were shattered, empty and sad, and I smiled at Tan Lang, silently waiting for you. ...

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The wind is bitter, the water is cold, the whole lotus is fragrant, the peony is fragrant, the morning dew is drunk, the willow leaves are light, the rain in Xiaoxiang is like a curtain, and the lips are greedy. Li Xiao is at his desk, the flower shadow wall, the bamboo forest evening breeze, a piece of paper is sent, the singing and dancing are pure as jade, and the tea is half warm. When I see my life, I sigh the remnants of Yu He, and I hate the wind and frost. Drunk tonight, time has passed; Connecting the past with the future, shallow ink is plain. Pupae love cocoons to become wings, butterflies break for flowers, but flowers fly with the wind. Sing a few words, drunk and ask what year this year is?

Joan's sauce was full of dew, and she fell down and hurt her soul. You have lost your crown, picked up flowers in the evening, sighed all over the ground, and lost your shadow. Standing alone under the moon, we were inseparable. A blue lamp to see flowers, a lonely cold crescent moon, chaos all over the ground, instant fragrance of flowers, lost in the rain of buttonwood trees, throbbing with flowers like flowers for years, madly loving your 3 thousand moss, the silence of Los Angeles, the broken pen, the flying of dust, the flying of quicksand, the flying of Qinhuai, Ike's warm makeup, the bright moon in Qin Dynasty, moving over the parapet and Cangyang Jiacuo. Dawn outside the window, the waning moon sets, stepping on the shadow means waking up the whole city, dreaming brilliant dreams, falling to the ground, stroking the pain you left behind, and unconsciously wetting the tears in the corner of your eyes.

Pen flowers, faint marks, plain ink, makeup, tearful eyes, smiling at cold remnants, gently watering drunkenness, comforting vicissitudes of life, rocking boats, boating on the lake, a wisp of light smoke, fishing alone in the cold river to avoid snow, rippling layer by layer, fading away, light pen, still for you, filling sentences and cracking nails, still for your immortal elegance, ruined by gorgeous lonely years, Thousands of years of tears, eternal love and endless beheadings turned out to be a world of one person, an empty city decorated with smoke and sand of half a city. Under the ruins, a lonely soul drifts away with the next unknown myth. ...

Bite crimson lips, want to talk, whisper about zhanghua, write about being drunk and carefree, but can't help but pick up red flowers, light a few lamps, languish all night, linger in past lives, wind and frost crush plum, Moran window, rocking fan, blue and white pillow, a roll of curtains, worrying about Shui Mu's years, being lonely all his life, burying flowers with hoes and selling red incense. Who has compassion? People say that Sioux City, Charlotte, heartbroken, red embroidery, fragrant beds and beans are subtle and heartbreaking. With the passage of time, this is a dream fairy tale of two people, but now it has become a new joke. ...

Under the lonely lamp, the green case is covered with sandalwood, and the sandalwood curls up, only taking pictures and splashing ink. The pen tip is acacia, writing the past, and that touch of sadness has slipped through the years like smoke, stranding the feelings of shallow confession. Who left the piano and flute? Sing a fireworks, listen to a moonlight, encounter a few rays of cold air through the window, the candle shadow shakes red, the wind dances, chaotic time; Silently listening to the flowers, pity the blooming flowers, a lot less sorrow, sigh that the flowering period has passed, add a few strands of sadness, and let the flowers bloom in spring. Looking around, where will the beautiful image of drifting away go? What kind of reader will you be?

Xuan paper dyed with ink, Hanlin narrated the thesaurus, held brocade, draped a dream, expressed a piece of acacia ink, lingering in calligraphy, a farewell song, contaminated with Tang poetry and Song poetry, lost in the Jin Dynasty, wrote a gorgeous farewell song, and slept in that life, hurting my soul sadly. Pointing to the falling flowers, the rain is turning into butterflies, wind and smoke, and dreams. I know a volume of Sanskrit. ...

After all, there are joys and sorrows, the stars are hidden in the moon, life is chaotic, the candle is full of tears, the reflection is drunk, and the rosewood is covered, including who is dying of love, and the night devours Shan Ye. Who wakes up on the edge of a dream still remembers the aftertaste, feeling cold and sad, weak and weak, and deducing absolute beauty. The face wobbled and the solo ended. Cold dreams come into being, mountains are picturesque and lofty sentiments are empty. I will write a piece of ink for you and write down the love on earth. Yuanyang plays in the water, Tsinghua ups and downs, dreamy Loulan leans on the fence to meditate, and morning dew hates the morning light.

Text/Tan Shixue

20 12。 3。 5: 00 midnight

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