Author Meng Jiao? the Tang Dynasty
The mother used the needle and thread in her hand to make clothes for her long-distance son.
Before leaving, I had a stitch for fear that my son would come back late and his clothes would be damaged.
Who can say that a filial child like the weak can repay his mother's love like the sunshine in spring?
A loving mother makes clothes for her long-distance son with a needle and thread in her hand. Before leaving, he sewed a needle tightly for fear that his son would come back late and his clothes would be damaged. Who can say that a child's filial piety as weak as grass can repay the kindness of such a loving mother as Chunhui Puze?
Second, go home at the end of the year.
Author Jiang shiquan? Ching Dynasty
I love my son endlessly, and I'm glad to go home.
Cold clothes are needle and thread, and letters from home are ink stains.
If you encounter pity, you will ask for it.
I am ashamed of the son of man and dare not sigh.
A mother's love for her children is endless. How happy my mother is to go home during the Spring Festival! She is sewing a cotton-padded coat for me, and the needle and thread are tight. The letter I sent home has just arrived, and the ink is still wet. As soon as I met my mother, she said affectionately that I had lost weight and repeatedly asked me if I was suffering outside. I bowed my head in shame and dared not tell her about my wandering.
Third, oh, mom.
Author Shu Ting? Modern dynasty
Your pale fingertips touch my temple.
I can't help acting like a child.
Hold on to your skirt
Ah, mom.
In order to keep your fading figure
Although the morning light has cut the dream into smoke.
I still dare not open my eyes for a long time.
I still cherish that bright red scarf.
Afraid that cleaning will make it
Lose your unique warmth
Ah, mom.
Isn't the running water of the years just as ruthless?
I'm afraid the memory will fade, too.
How dare I open its screen easily?
I cried to you for a thorn.
Now I'm wearing a Jing Guan, and I dare not.
I dare not moan.
Ah, mom.
I often look up at your photos sadly.
Even if the call can penetrate the loess
How dare I disturb your sleep?
I dare not show the sacrifice of love like this.
Although I have written many songs.
For flowers, for the sea, for the dawn.
Ah, mom.
My sweet, soft and deep memory.
Not a torrent, not a waterfall.
It's a dry well, and it can't sing under the shade of flowers and trees.
The author introduces:
Shu Ting, female, 1952, from shima town, Fujian Province, is a contemporary poetess in China, and a representative of the misty school. Shu Ting, formerly known as Gong, has lived in Xiamen with her parents since childhood. 1969 went to the countryside to jump the queue, 1972 went back to the city to work as a worker, 1979 began to publish poetry works, 1980 worked in Fujian Federation of Literary and Art Circles and was engaged in professional writing.
Fourth, don't be old.
Author Huang Jingren? Ching Dynasty
The bow curtain goes to the mother river beam, and the tears are white.
This is a tragic snowy night in Chai Men. It is better to have children than nothing at this time.
Open the curtain, because I want to make a living in He Liang, so I reluctantly bid farewell to my elderly mother. Seeing my white-haired mother, I couldn't help crying, and my tears dried up. What's the use of adopting a son if you can't be filial to your mother on this snowy night and drive away this miserable and divided Chai Men? I still don't want it.
Verb (abbreviation of verb) Kaifeng
Author anonymous? pre-Qin period
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.
Did you catch a cold? Under Xun.
With seven children, my mother is very hard.
The yellow bird, with its voice.
There are seven children, don't comfort your mother.
Translation:
The wind is blowing from the south, blowing the heart of Ziziphus jujuba. The tree heart is still too delicate, and my mother is really hard.
The wind fluttered, and the wind blew from the south, blowing the dense branches of Zizyphus jujuba. Mother's understanding is virtuous, and I can only repay it if I can't do it.
Cold spring, cold spring and cold spring, the source is there. Even with seven sons, mother is still working hard.
The little yellow bird is singing, and its voice is melodious and beautiful. Even with seven sons, it can't comfort the mother's heart.