Haizi

Suddenly, I really want to miss Haizi. He is a poet, but I don’t want to regard him as a poet. He is just a weak and tough man in his heart. On a gloomy noon, the sky is a pale color. You can’t see the sun, you can feel the existence of sunshine, but you can’t feel the warmth. I walked along the noisy street, and there was a destination, a bookstore I liked, where there were many words that I had read and covered my heart. As soon as one foot stepped in, he felt kind. Follow the path between the bookshelves and walk slowly without a goal. A thick book with Hai Zi smiling with glasses on the side. Standing quietly in the book cluster, there is a kind of energy that will make people deeply trapped. I stretched out my hand and held it over. The cover is Haizi’s ink graffiti, a work composed of one or two strokes. People who can understand will see his wild and lonely heart. I suffered three times: wandering, love and survival. I have three kinds of happiness: poetry, throne and sun. The first page of the poetry collection. After reading these two sentences silently, I don’t look for the meaning of each word to him in my heart. I can feel his feelings of saying these two sentences in my heart. It belongs to the poet’s self and loneliness. People who understand will understand without thinking. Don’t know people, just have a normal heart. The first poem, Asian bronze. Haizi expressed his death straightly. He said, “You are the only place to bury people. Then, it becomes soft again. Birds love to suspect and fly, and seawater submerge everything. Your master is indeed grass, living on his tiny waist, holding the palm and secret of wild flowers. Don’t think about the meaning of each poem with literary emotion, just feel it with heart. Then, I saw Haizi’s pure heart. One of his favorite poems ever was wheat field. It is also because of this poem that this poet has existed in my heart since then. When I stand in front of you painfully, you can’t say I have nothing, you can’t say I have nothing. Read Haizi’s poems one by one. He felt himself in his heart, lonely and helpless. Maybe he was destined to kill himself. He once said that I fell in love with death. Maybe he doesn’t love death, but when he is desperate, he thinks death is home. He just wanted to find a home, live quietly, let himself go, let everything go. I beg to put it out, the light of pig iron, the light of lover and sunshine. I request rain. I beg to die at night. I beg you to meet the person who buried me in the morning. The Dust of Years is boundless. In autumn, I ask: Next rain, clean my bones. My eyes closed, and I asked: Rain, rain is the fault of life, rain is sorrow and joy. I suffered three times: wandering, love and survival. I have three kinds of happiness: poetry, throne and sun. Miss Haizi. Rest. Poppy remember

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