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诗歌的命运,总是令人唏嘘不已。有时,她是神,飘荡在云端,供人膜拜;有时,她是草,被人踏在脚底,忍受孤寂;有时,她是怪物,被人挖苦、取笑。当人们遭遇巨大灾难和不幸时,诗歌显得很重要,她如灰暗天空下的一枝玫瑰、一豆烛光,抚慰伤痛,拯救灵魂;当世界欢乐无比或者忙碌逐利之时,诗歌又不重要了,她沉默于角落,被人遗忘,如晴天的雨伞、夏天的棉服,落满尘埃。我们都有过类似经历:年轻时,人人都是诗人,一点一滴的青春荷尔蒙就是一首诗歌,那些布满愁绪但模仿痕迹明显的分
The fate of poetry is always marvelous. Sometimes she is God, floating in the clouds, for worship; sometimes, she is a grass, was riding on the soles of feet, endure loneliness; sometimes, she is a monster, was bitter, teasing. When people encounter tremendous catastrophe and misfortune, poetry appears to be very important. She is like a rose under a gloomy sky, a candle by a candle, to soothe the pain and save the soul. When the world is full of joy or profit, poetry is not important. She was silent in the corner, forgotten, such as sunny umbrellas, summer cotton clothes, covered with dust. We all had a similar experience: when young, everyone is a poet, bit by bit young hormones is a poem, those full of melancholy but traces of imitation obvious points