I'm the youngest of seven children, and I'm still picking up jujube under the tree. I have been picking it up for thousands of years, tirelessly and endlessly.
Pinch one into your mouth, sweet memories, sour aftertaste; Time flies in my heart, like singing the years immersed in the countryside with the drums at dusk, the voice of missing and loving you.
There is always speculation that when my mother got married, the seedlings she planted casually exploded into seven shoots in the blink of an eye and grew into towering trees. For thousands of years, the green leaves are still lush.
In retrospect, those happy days were covered with branches, covered with shady green leaves, warm through the veins, and laughter and laughter jumped on the branches into a grand party, which lasted for thousands of years.
Mom, where can I find you?
The city is still there, and the cold spring has gone; The chirping of yellow birds falls all over the barren slope, and the tired back has long been blurred.
At that time, seven sons were scattered all over the world, and jujube trees were spread all over five oceans and seven continents. Can a round heart be torn into seven pieces? Each piece is a huge land, full of endless rivers, vast lakes and seas, and nourishing countless mountains and rivers and oases.
In the warm south wind, I am still willing to stare at the stars in the north and the stars around Beichen. Just like seven sons holding hands around the jujube tree planted by their mother a thousand years ago.
I am a young star in the Beidou, firmly tied to the center of the spoon handle, tied to countless sunrises and sunsets.
Standing at dusk in the south, I feel dignified and lonely. Imagine that white hair washed by wind and rain and wrinkles cracked by frost and snow are like deep valleys.
Twenty years have passed, and the old house is still open today?
News meteor, through the night, points to Beidou. Send a message of peace to the Millennium jujube tree and the loving mother in the distance.
2005/7/9. Zizhuzhai in Junan
Attached to the original text of Kaifeng:
The wind blew from the south, blowing his spine. I want to die, and my mother has a reward.
The wind blows from the south, and the wind blows from the other side. God, I have no family.
There is a cold spring under the dredging. With seven children, my mother is very hard.
The yellow bird, with its voice. There are seven children, don't comfort your mother.