English Poetry of Immigrants

An old man selling charcoal cuts wood and burns charcoal in the mountains in the south all year round.

His face was covered with dust, which was the color of smoke burning, his temples were gray, and his ten fingers were burnt black.

What's the point of selling charcoal? You can't eat with clothes on.

Pity that he is wearing thin clothes, but he is worried that charcoal can't be sold, hoping it will be colder.

At night, I came to this city with a foot of snow. I drove a charcoal car on the ice.

Cows are tired and people are hungry, but the sun has risen very high. They are resting in the mud outside the south gate of the market.

Who are the two riders? Yellow messenger and white shirt.

Holding the document was forgiven, and the cow was led north when she got back to the car.

A load of charcoal, more than 1000 kilograms, eunuch attendants to drive away, the old man is helpless, but there is no way.

Half a horse's red yarn is a silk, which is filled with charcoal to the cow's head.

Random thoughts on Lu You's Autumn Night Dawn Coming out of the Hedge Gate to Meet the Cold

3. East of Wan Li River flows into the sea, reaching a height of 5,000 meters.

It's another year for the adherents to cry in the dust and look south to Julian Waghann.

The Book of Songs Feng Wei Shuo Shu

Vole, vole, don't eat my millet!

I have served you hard for years, but you don't care about me.

Vowed to get rid of you and go to a happy land.

That promised land, that promised land, is my good place!

Vole, vole, don't eat my wheat!

I have served you hard for many years, but you are not kind to me.

Swear to get rid of you and enjoy the state.

That country, that country of music, is my good place!

Rat, vole, don't eat my seedlings!

After years of hard work, you don't want me!

I vowed to get rid of you and go to the suburbs to laugh.

Happy suburbs, who is the eternal number.

Immigrants praise modern Li Weibai

There is nothing to thank in the evening. Look down at the smog and dust.

The old green hills change color, and the newborn birds are in the morning.

Gold rush is in love with rivers and lakes, but digging a grave is still going to sink.

After 1820 years of struggle, I immigrated to the descendants of the Flame Mountain.

For reference.