Author: Fu Tianlin
In the field, mom.
You bend down to make famous paintings.
A face covered with wheat straw
Tired and bright
The gentleness of the silver night
From the thatched cottage
Our home will always be green.
The soul from the mother
Always open
Grandchildren's corn and ears of grain
hand down from generation to generation
Surround you into a village
In the mother's broad fragrance
I only have the smell and desire of a mung bean.