A ride on the mountain, a ride on the water, and a trip to Guan Yu, with thousands of lights at night. When the wind changes and the snow changes, it is impossible to break the dream of hometown, and there is no such sound in the garden. A poem named Sauvignon Blanc by Nalan Xingde describes the long homesickness of many people who have left home.
The way home is always so long, under the same sky, but there is no trace of my hometown childhood. The memory of my hometown in my dream is clearly engraved in my heart, with overlapping rings and complicated heart.
Close your eyes and your hometown will come to mind. How many midnight dreams wake up and look at the twinkling stars in the sky, but I can't sleep. Time has carved my face and changed my life. Time took away my childhood and youth, and I was in tears unconsciously.
Childhood is gone forever. What we can hold in our hands is nothing more than a cloud in the same sky. My heart longs for a cool rain, flowing from the past to the present, through the eaves, through the years, through the memories of different shades. Rainbow hangs in the sky after rain, and fish swim in the long river of hometown. Now everything has changed. My childhood has passed away, replaced by a wanderer who struggled for life.
Distant youth is looming, no one tells me where my childhood went, but my mother's arms and my father's arms are still the warmest harbor of my childhood, just like lost happiness, lost in the noisy world and lost in the long river of years.
The flowers and trees in my hometown, the river in front of my home, and the swaying flowers on the roadside are all stirring my memories of youth and my yearning for my hometown.
Those innocent childhood days, when I think about it now, are really dreams outlined by a fairy-tale paradise. Clouds floating in the sky and clear water in the river are outlined frame by frame and stored in my heart.
The restless land, the restless cicada in summer and the crisp and cheerful frog are constantly emerging in front of your eyes. There is another market not far away. My mother told her childhood story in front of the wheat pile.
When I was a teenager, I sat alone on the ridge of the field, listening to the wind blowing through my ears, listening to the whispers of summer insects and listening to distant stories from the wind.
On the wild jujube trees in the countryside and in the green apple orchards, those lush and delicate fruits are like wind chimes hanging in memories, jingling with the wind of thoughts, picking off the green fruits and stuffing them into your mouth. That sour taste is like the bitter memories that occasionally appear in the search for youth.
When I was a teenager, during the tough wheat holiday, teenagers happily went home to help their parents harvest wheat and had a field to dry. The pile of wheat became the venue for family games at night, and the family played hide and seek. My brother and I sneaked into the haystack and held our breath. Who was busy in the crib all day, which led my father to look for it in front of and behind the village? When he finally found us, my father had tears in his anxious and loving eyes, but at that moment he held the child tightly.
Shoot dragonflies with a broom at noon and catch frogs in the pond at night. Now that I think about it, I feel quite guilty. Dragonflies that can't fly anymore, frogs with nicks in their chins, I wonder if they still hate that innocent boy.
No one in life can get rid of the bondage of memory. Ancient mud tile walls, mottled green trees, bird's nest dripping under the eaves when it rains, and half-closed wooden doors. In those green lives, the family sat in the yard watching the stars and chatting about their parents' stories. In childhood in memories of youth, a jiaozi was a good meal. The family sat around the table, as beautiful as Chinese New Year. At this moment, my father always likes to pour some wine and enjoy himself.
The sunset in my hometown is so beautiful that it makes people cry. Red clouds reflect the red sunset. The old cow who came back at dusk, playing the frivolous flute, the kind wrinkles on grandma's face and the kind smile will always be treasured in my heart.
Children run home in the field, meet their mother's call, and run around in the field full of vegetation, but chasing the wind is an eternal dream for thousands of years.
The past is forever, and my childhood dreams will always stay in my hometown. Childhood gradually faded, followed by a gradual strangeness, and the childhood dreams have been wandering in the distance. No one knows where I am going, but I am still walking around. The smoke from my hometown, the cicada singing at dusk, the gurgling stream and the wheat fragrance in my hometown played a harmonious and warm movement with my old brigade. The roots of life have been deeply rooted in the soil of hometown. No matter how big the world is, wherever you go, there is a deep and lingering love for your hometown.
The songs of those teenagers, the boldness of those fields, the innocent appearance of teenagers, accompanied by childhood memories, are destined to settle down in the old house in their hometown.
My hometown is getting farther and farther away, and I am getting old. At this moment, my thoughts, through the dream of my hometown, let me gently pick up the bits and pieces of my childhood and the laughter and laughter that stayed in my hometown, but failed to break the dream of my hometown, so there is no such voice in my hometown.