My hometown is on the bank of the Yellow River, at the end of Gobi, in the vast northern wilderness. ...
The ancestors carried their homes on their shoulders and followed the footsteps. Give them a leaf and they can spend a cold winter. A stone and a stick can support them all their lives.
They can live in water or in soil. Their legs are taller than the green hills. The speed at which they run is the speed of hunger: they kick the sunset barefoot into the mountains like dustpans, and the blood of hunting splashes the sunset red. ...
Home is just an earthenware pot erected by several trees by the campfire. The casserole creaked and there was a flame below. There are fish in the upper reaches of the flame, which is all the wealth and food handed down by our ancestors. I feel the sunshine flowing slowly under the eaves of my hometown like a river, and there is a person sitting under the eaves, like grandpa recalling the past. In the room, there was the sound of hammering "starched" bedding, and "bang bang bang bang" hammered the folds left by time.
At dusk, the burning clouds in my hometown are like grandma's patched skirt-colorful. Mother sighed the moonlight and shook the old well with a pulley, like a lullaby that shook life.
Hometown is the continuation of the story by the ancestors' bonfire. The fish swam into the stone, the experience was written into the book, the fragments of the clay pot became civilization and history, and the flame still licked the bottom of the pot and licked the endless days. Depict a person
The fence in my hometown is sandwiched by wicker, which separates the chickens and ducks from the heart. The walls of my hometown are blackened by oil lamps, hemp ropes are spun by greed, and cloth shoes are made of true feelings.
A family in my hometown holds a happy event, and it is half of the village. A family is in trouble, which worries its neighbors. Dogs in the east yard bark, while dogs in the west yard bark. Everyone in my hometown is full of meat.
The real name of hometown is made of earth, the house is made of mud, the couplet on the door frame is written with a brush, the door is open day and night, and the spirit of hometown is simple.
In my hometown, the burning sticks are made of wood, the smoke is swaying, the photos are black and white, Guo Guo, who is locked in a cage, is a country singer, and life in my hometown is unremarkable.
Hometown hangs a hoe to bask in the sun, there are peppers under the eaves, and there is a smile on his face, burying his anguish and sadness in his heart.
We have to wait until the fertilizer is settled and the autumn harvest food is sent to the city. Eggs are for students to study, and the rest of the money is saved for my son to get married. ...
Hometown, calling mom and dad makes me cry.