Content preview:
Dusty memory (1)
Dusty memory
Memory is like a trickle, clear and long; Memory is like an old wine, sweet and mellow; Memory is like the morning bell of an ancient temple, echoing leisurely; Memory is like a flying kite, ethereal and light.
Open the thick book of memory, brush off a thin layer of dust, feel the breath of time, listen to the melody of time, and let your thoughts fly back to your virginity.
The mountains in my hometown are rolling and winding; The trees on the mountain are lush and full of vitality; Birds in the tree are singing and flying with me.
When I was a child, agile figures flashed between valleys and jungles; Immature children's voices and crisp birds play a beautiful melody.
The scenery in my hometown is different in four seasons: in spring, the grass slowly arches out of the ground and puts on a bright green dressing gown for the earth; In summer, flowers bloom and weave colorful garlands for people to enjoy; In autumn, the ears of wheat hang down their heavy heads to tell people that they are ready for the joy of harvest; In winter, snowflakes dance lightly, bringing happiness to mountains, rivers and the whole world.
In early spring, little girls with horns on their heads, with hoes and baskets, went to dig wild vegetables and pick wild fruits all over the mountains. In this vast field, they are running, frolicking, playing and singing ... Tired, they are lying on the soft grass, greedily breathing the fragrance of the earth. Looking up at the blue sky, they imagine themselves as fish. ...
It should be the whole book.