Past Poetry

Time flies. Winter is already here, sighing for the passing years. I can only write the past into poems, separated from the mundane world. Everything is desolate and hazy, with thoughts that are both broken and continuous. Memories of this lifetime are fixed in a glance, witnessing the countless storms and snows of a century, the loneliness and desolation of a century, the cycles of vicissitudes of a century. Only the gratitude for the spring blossoms and the farewell to the autumn leaves. When all attachments cannot connect to the longing for tomorrow, and all the vicissitudes settle into sighs of the past night, quietly tell yourself to let go a little, and have a long sleep, write a shallow poem, get drunk with a glass of turbid wine, and enjoy a leisurely day with clouds outside the window.