Poetry of maternal love
"Paper Boat" Author: Bing Xin
I never abandon a piece of paper,
Always Keep it - keep it
fold it into small boats,
throw it from the boat into the sea.
Some were blown into the windows of the boat by the wind,
Some were wetted by the waves and stuck to the bow of the boat.
I still keep folding them every day without getting discouraged,
I always hope that one of them will flow to where I want it to go.
Mother, if you see a small white boat in your dream,
Don’t be surprised that it entered the dream for no reason.
This is what your beloved daughter folded with tears in her eyes,
Thousands of rivers and mountains, please ask it to carry her love
and sorrow back home.
Mother's love
There is a kind of love no matter where you are
You can feel her warmth
There is a kind of love no matter where you are You can feel her heartbeat in any situation
You are happy and she is happy.
You are sad and she is crying.
Only her
Never need to be treasured
But never forgotten
Author: Haofeng Changling Source: Chinese Mother Literature Net
The name of the milk
This is the name of this milk.
You gave it to me.
It melts in your mouth like cheese.
It is the one you hum most often when breastfeeding.
You use it to make your daughter smile.
You use it to lull your daughter to sleep.
Then you will be intoxicated by the music;
This is the name of this milk,
It is your special name,
Like cheese In my daughter's heart,
It is the most wonderful sound of nature,
The days at home are getting shorter and shorter,
But this name contains the fragrance of milk,
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Always ringing in my ears,
accompanying me to grow up and encouraging me,
My daughter feels happiness in this music
Secret Feet of dense needles, thick cotton robe
The floral cotton-padded jacket made by my mother,
The pole that supports memory
-----Weighing the anchor :
At that time, my mother was still a handsome man with a handsome mane
At that time, she still lived in a small brick house,
At that time, I always stayed in Under the warm quilt
Counting my mother’s fainting shadow,
There is an oil paper lantern,
It always lights up till dawn
>Layers of cotton wool bloom in mother’s hands,
There is a dull needle rubbing oil on mother’s scalp.
The hoop-shaped thimble fastens The flesh of mother’s fingers.
The wind in September chilled the throat in October.
The floral cotton-padded jacket made by mother warmed her daughter’s heart.
The thread is getting longer and longer, but it cannot last as long as the runway of time.
But the floral cotton-padded jacket made by my mother still tastes like when I was a child.