sun
You don't remember your birthday?
You don't seem to have a birthday
You seem unwilling to use your memory.
Your memory only engraves your child's resume.
Flowers have their own birthdays, and so does grass.
My mother doesn't have her own birthday.
I figured out your birthday from your white hair.
Instead, it introduced a snowy day.
I guess your birthday comes from your wrinkles.
But guess a dry day.
I associate your birthday with your slanting steps.
But I thought of an earthquake day.
In the sky, the sun and the moon have no birthdays of their own.
On the ground, my mother doesn't have her own birthday.
How sad, I don't have the most sacred festival.
four
moon
Swallow is very familiar with the scene of transplanting rice seedlings with your baby on your back.
Summer begins gently at the fingertips.
Green flows from your eyes to vilen's chest.
The sky is bending, the sun is bending, and the wind is bending.
Mother painted the radian of the years so accurately.
Suddenly, the baby cried, April cried, and the field cried.
Mother is still walking slowly with spring in her hand.
The prayer of the season is on the chest, and the dream of breathing is on the back.
Let the church collapse. The real Virgin is planting rice in the field.
Philosopher, this is the structure of the world-
Painful fingers dyed green and desolate.
The sun and baby are on the mother's back.
Crying and maturity ...
rotate
When crickets hold moonlight on the grass
Textile that ancient and damp ballad.
When fish swim in the river, they produce some rustling ripples.
This is the moment when mom weaves love and longing.
Sleep quietly in the hum at night.
I walked into the drizzle in spring and the snow in winter.
Walk into the misty temples and the Moon Palace full of Gui Xiang.
But I can't find the fairy.
I can't find a hero who lives in legend.
Hell is full of my mother.
It's my spinning mother
Heaven is full of my mother.
My mother knitted it.
The dense stars are all mother's lines.
Endless light, endless tenderness
Rotate the moon, rotate the sun in the dream sea.
Mother, until you weave another tearful dawn.
Needle basket
Fill in the characteristics and artistic conception of the season.
What comes out is vivid color and style.
Colorful rags whisper a topic.
There are too many worries entangled in this thread.
Insole misses the injured footsteps in the distance.
Buttons long for the day when they are close to the air.
Small silver needle, holding the hot sight.
Through the wind and rain, the seam is connected with the longitude and latitude of the years.
Ah, is the sky also a huge sewing basket?
Satin full of clouds, buttons of stars
But I can't knit a new spring dress for my mother.
God, when I'm shivering with cold.
But you never sent me a dress.
I like my mother's sewing basket.
I don't worship you.