-Inscription.
The branches embraced by the warm wind are particularly enchanting. The mountain village engraved in life is filled with smoke, and the clouds smile with a calm attitude. The sea of hearts began to rise, and there was really a smell in the nasal cavity. Hometown, I finally feel your true feelings.
Childhood scenes, how many dreams linger, once weak fingers dare not touch the flowers that want to bloom. The posture of the flowers is so quiet and beautiful, the sunset is low, my father is working in the field, and the expression of hope is long gone. The moment my arrogant head was raised, my eyes were opposite. I shed tears of shame under my father's eager eyes.
I always thought that as long as I was able, I could repay my father's kindness. I always thought that as long as I put my heart into it, I could write a poem praising my father deeply, and let that deep poetry soak in the world. But when the pen comes into contact with those unforgettable years, I find it so difficult to write. Fragrant ink can't outline the scene of my father's hard work all his life, and thin rice paper can't accommodate his short figure.
The old hoe, singing the song of labor, trimmed the fields into years and built bridges where there were ditches and ridges. Green seedlings, bearing the ardent hope of their father, uprooted those weeds and saw their father's bright smile.
Every hoe is integrated into his father's painstaking efforts, and the curved back bears an infinite responsibility, pushing away the leaves of crops. The deep sky seems to have just been cultivated by his father, and the hard sweat falls in the wind. My old father, I firmly believe that the sowing of blood and tears will surely reap a bright moon.
The shepherd boy is grazing the white clouds, and the short father is on the back of the cow. Twilight symbolizes the rest of his life, but the words calling for children are still so bold. He divided his bitterness, boiled and drank it, and then asked his mother affectionately, as long as we are alive, we must shape our son into a great man.
Marigold in August is surging with a wave of hope. Your thorn stung my finger. Blood is talking, and the leaves are dyed red by blood drops. My body is full of your blood, my dear father.
How many lives have been nourished by the old well in front of the house? The sound of wheels disturbed my childhood dreams. Time waved its magic hand and separated me from my father. For your entrustment, for my dream, I want to make my life shine in the sun.
Tears welled up in my eyes when I walked out of the familiar yard. Looking back, years have engraved hardships on my father's forehead, and my heart ached, and tears blurred my father's short figure.
Whenever I have no sleep, I always look up at the sky, trying to light the stars with my deep affection, as if I saw my father's dancing bamboo pole weaving a beautiful vision. The years passed slowly at his fingertips, but his eyes were always so dignified.
The moon fell on the branches, and I put on my clothes and danced with a gust of wind. Wind, will you send my thoughts to my father's heart? On lonely nights, my homesickness lingers in my old house. Father, did you hear my greeting?
Tonight, facing the lonely cold screen, my trembling pen tells my heart, and I can't forget my father's figure between the lines. Tears have dyed my poem red.
My father's love is incomparable, his eyes warm my heart, and the word "father" is extremely dignified. I will never forget, father, that you have accompanied me through one life journey after another. If there is an afterlife, I will still be your play. My old father, everything about you has been engraved in my poem.