Are there any good hymns recently?

When I was a child, I always wondered how this winding road could be so long that it would never reach the end of the road. When I was a child, I always complained that this closed and crowded town was too small to see the end of the sky forever. When I was a child, I wanted to fly very much. I always feel that my family has tied my wings. I always feel that my dream is sealed by love, and I am always impatient. When I grow up, the roads and water in my hometown can only be recalled in my dreams. The city lights are bright, but the one that belongs to me is gone. The sky in the city is vast, but it lacks wings to shelter me from the wind and rain. The long road of my hometown, now that I think about it, is like a thread that binds the wandering heart of a wanderer. The city in my hometown, if covered with a shed, is the eternal spiritual refuge for wanderers.

A street in my hometown, an old street. A pot of wine, a pot of old wine, a photo, an old photo. There used to be many people in the street, but many of them were familiar with each other. Look at the faces of each of them. They are all printed with sunshine, smiles, hopes for tomorrow and the joy of family reunion. All this is like a pot of wine, which tastes never tired, and the older it gets, the more fragrant it gets. Just like reading photos, it seems to be repeated every day, but there are new feelings every day. Autumn wind blows leaves all over the ground for life. Autumn wind, don't let it rush you. I just want it to represent light yellow, simple and fragrant. Because this is my home, my hometown.

Hometown Moonlight (Modern Poetry) The canopy quietly falls from homesickness and gently pours down from the pen. I recall the silver moonlight in my hometown, which was brittle and soft by the dog. The village stretched out its long ears to listen to the memories of the years shaking, silently gestating a deep homesickness. The old locust tree at the head of the village grew up here, and grandpa's story is as old as the years. The dry tobacco pouch covered with moonlight was set up with stars, and the Chai Men alcohol and simplicity of the years were knocked off and flowed out under the oil lamp. My mother's rural ballads slowly melted into the soles of my shoes, and the mood of biting me moved the poplars outside the door to shake off the moonlight, making the dogs barking one after another outside the village. The moonlight looking out from the treetops was gently bitten, and the village turned the gentle night yeast into the dawn in a deep sleep, and I sent out a drop of hee hee.