This is the eternal truth.
Crops growing on the land
A dead farmer in the land
One is the sweet potato I am familiar with.
One is my strange grandfather.
One fills my stomach
Full of my realistic memories.
In the end, there were none left.
It was planted in the ground and did not germinate.
But superstitious.
Pass the red and black wooden table to my father.
Watching mom leave in the thick fog
It's like watching grandma die in smoke.
The scattered truth
I will take it with me.
Dawn, dusk and night
In the body, in the air, that's it.
everywhere
Broken in the city
There is still no root bud.
Floating like this.
Lie down like this
A few grains of soil are wrapped in a bag of red cloth.
In the future, it will take me away
I believe in the land when it germinates.
I am the eternal truth.