It was as hazy as a dream,
The sound of a loving mother calling her son came.
The sounds seem to have a thousand weights,
The sounds are engraved in my heart.
It was very windy on March 9th,
There was a white-headed man in the wind.
Although my seventy-year-old father is old,
he is still worried about his son.
Reference material: "Three Hundred Poems", author: Bai Yu
The years have burned out, and the beard and the smoke ring have become entangled into a pale color
Grandpa used his pipe Turning the days into fuzzy smoke rings
The past became heavier and heavier in my breathing
I decided to tear up my body and roll it into grandpa’s favorite tobacco leaves
Burning into a wisp of clear smoke to accompany his old man
Forever
Grandma’s hand is cocooned from fatigue
I hold it as if I am holding a heavy hand Years
Grandma’s heart begins to become more and more fragile
The slightest collision will cause stagnation
So, I whisper to the years
Using my strength and youth to exchange for grandma’s weakness
The years are just silent
That year, grandma went
Grandpa leaned on the threshold The figure is curved
A pair of eyes stubbornly facing the starry sky in silence
A drop of turbid tears quietly about to fall
Pull out all the sorrow and sadness I have hidden in my sleeves
Sunset
Always always kind
Everything you have given for your descendants
Never intending to get anything in return
< p>Under the urging of the moonThe setting sun is waving its hands
turning the afterglow into an evening song
Tell us
How much he has
The rising sun