Zi Xi’s family members celebrated the Qingming Festival and silently prayed for Anyuan’s tomb. The long days of meditation bring tears to the eyes, and the dreams bring back memories and lamentations.
The sound and appearance are connected to the brain, and the teachings and education inspire the action. The vicissitudes of life are finally magnanimous, and heaven is safe and peaceful.
Father’s Day is reincarnated again, and people with the new coronavirus are even sadder. Today God is weeping again, and his tears are flying in the rain as a sacrifice to my father.
The sun and moon cycle through forty springs, and the voice of my loving father lingers in my dreams. I often hear my children calling me "Abba", but I have no words to call me "Father".
The chrysanthemums are still as yellow as last year, and every inch of worry hurts everything. The independent high-rise building faces the dying sun, and the autumn wind blows thousands of tears.
The Qingming Festival comes again one year, and the sky is drizzling and gloomy. The tombs are visited with great affection, but the paper money is burned for several rounds of worship.
I miss you so much on Father’s Day, light up your heart and incense. Filial piety is not as good as the grass in front of the grave, and the glory is withered by the father's side every year.
The drizzle is like a thousand tears, and the spring breeze touches the cold air. I was surprised that my parents had no new words, and I vaguely asked Jiuquan in my dream.
Every year comes the Double Ninth Festival, and a few of them return home and fall into Beitang. Where can I find my father's shadow on the ridge? The west wind fills the mountains with yellow chrysanthemums.
The dream has faded and the fragrance has faded for forty years, and the old willow in the garden has stopped blowing. This body is walking in the soil of Jishan, and its traces are still missing.