More beautiful than a girl in the distance.
Eyebrows are not thick
Don't hook your eyes.
Mountains are breasts and buttocks.
Make clothes in the wheat field
Hot springs are bathhouses.
Flowers and plants are fragrant.
The roots of my hometown are deeply hidden.
Fuxi Nuwa gave birth to ten thousand babies.
Xuanyuan dadixing home-cooked
Seeking roots and ancestors in front of Fuxi temple
Tan Dadiwan Chang 'an
8,000 years of wind and rain are blowing big and long.
My parents in my hometown are very kind.
Sweating in summer and autumn.
In winter and spring, I am rushing to show my shoes.
Put your heart on your child.
Don't complain all the time.
It is not negotiable to expect the son to succeed and the daughter to succeed.
A barren land where life is easy.
There is more than a distance full of temptation.
There are also my hometown and my parents in the poem.
Unconsciously, I slept my dream into a poem like weeds, singing the orange songs of the years. The songs of the years will be sung to the world forever. It is a selfless spectator, making up so many sentient beings every minute, pruning flowers, leaves and greens, and carving the horns of the four seasons. It flies across the sky at a constant speed, without breathing, looking back, leaving no trace, without thinking, and selfishly giving folds to the world, especially the life full of temptations.
The sour pear trees in Dome Mountain in my hometown stand upright against the north wind. The inverted trapezoid on the ninth floor is like the embrace of the big mountain ridge, holding the geomantic omen, guarding the aura of the rivers and lakes and remembering the past of the immortals. Sanqingliu is still green, witnessing the end of the world. The legendary hands of the pioneer who planted willow in his hometown are still waving firmly and forcefully in the minds of the descendants of Yujiawan, and there are still clear waves in our rusty memories.
The pace of the city has stepped into the field of vision of the countryside step by step, breaking the tranquility of the countryside. The farming business of one person and three acres of land and the happiness of his wife and children quickly retired, and people began to think and plan the future. But for the poetic hometown, there are far from great opportunities for development, and there are three directions for young people to create the future. One is to learn from city dwellers to educate children to enter university, the other is to enjoy the world outside, and the other is to learn the unique skills of hometown and make a living in hometown. In recent years, some young people have realized their dream of college and lived a modeling life of 3. 1 minute after graduation. Some young people started their own businesses and became bosses. Some young people learned skills or experience to start their own businesses in their hometown, took off the hat of poverty and took the lead in running a well-off society. However, there is always a cruel opposite to everything, and the increasing material satisfaction may not make up for the inner embarrassment. Unconsciously, we gradually lost what belongs to spirit and love, and we are dying and wandering on the spiritual road of life. I remember that when I go home every year, I will always find that the phenomenon of left-behind elderly people and children is increasingly prominent. There will always be more wasteland in the fields of my hometown, and there will always be villagers moving towards the red line of life day by day, even leaving us. There is always a scene in my mind that makes me afraid and sad, and that is that year. Young people in the village generally don't go home all the year round. They are on the journey of pursuing a new life, studying, charging, making money, getting married and getting married. I came back from all directions at the end of the year. In less than a week, we handed over 360 days to the distance, to the factory, to ourselves and to various excuses. We only hurried through four or five days. Even when I come back for the New Year, it's the same as driving, visiting relatives and friends, drinking during the New Year, worshiping immortals, offering sacrifices to bodhisattvas, playing with social fires, and rushing into the distance after the first day of August. Although our year is full of joy, excitement and reunion, how melancholy and distant our hearts are!
No matter how cheerful our personality is, how big our hearts are, how beautiful the outside world is, homesickness and family ties are always unforgettable, and our hearts are always inseparable from the grass and trees in our hometown. Every time I see the wooden plow, hoe and sickle at home, I always think of the sufferings of my loved ones, the days they lived, the sweat they shed, the cows and horses they made, and the dedication of love. Every time I see old people leave without saying goodbye, I always feel pain in my heart, helplessness in my heart and panic of life and death. Every time I am close, I seldom go home under various excuses. There will always be guilt and sadness, shame and depression, decadence and loss. Every time I face my old relatives, I don't do my duty wholeheartedly, and I always feel hypocritical, selfish and helpless. People in the village often say that when people are old, they have to die early. Mother always said that if they die early, they will be less wronged. There is no need to discuss the truth outside the words for the time being. I only feel the philosophy of life and death, the incompleteness of human nature, and the hooligan in my heart. What kind of alienation has happened in our life, what has our spirit lost, and how can we get out of the road of life? I still don't have the answer. My mind is full of the desolate and hateful mourning culture of hospice care. I make do with living, make do with dying, and bury it with honor.
Recently, a relative died on the red line of life and death. Physical pain made her cry, and a clear mind made her unusually calm. What she left us most was her back, and what we want to see most is her back. I think the process of looking at their faces positively is the most painful process, the most sad process, the most self-blaming process, and the most enlightening process for their children and grandchildren. But beyond these days, what have we really done, thanked and contributed? Maybe it's because we didn't do well enough that we blame ourselves. Just because we didn't do well enough, we can't feel at ease now. In the final analysis, we are tortured, tortured and miserable by a kind of regret medicine. Only by facing life and death, can we understand the truth of life and death. Anyway, we finally know something. Sometimes, in some places, some people come in a daze, enjoy their retirement in a daze, don't know what is good or bad in a daze, and finally die in a daze. In contrast, we are relatively lucky and don't have to blame ourselves for the time being.
I am still an introverted and sad person, experiencing life and death. I am used to watching life and death scenes, listening to life and death rumors, dreaming about life and death, and reading life and death articles, but I can't write a poem about life and death. A poem has been popular recently. I can't remember the most popular sentence at all. The general idea is that it is not only in front of us, but also in the distance, in the field of poetry. But my current state can only be living in a dead end in front of me, thinking about all the shadows that I can't get out of. I think, if in my life memory, even a small part of our relatives can really survive in the distant fields, I will definitely write a poem about living in the distance.
The scene of May shines on the mountains in my hometown, and the cement road is speeding on the corner of the field. Flowers and plants are dotted with fields, the wheat fields are fragrant, pigs and dogs are barking, the wind is blowing and the villagers are busy. I seem to stand quietly on the pear tree in Dome Mountain in my hometown, thinking, watching and dreaming. This is the peak of a pear tree, a self-reliant pear tree, exposed to the north wind, covered with summer green and winter snow, blooming and landing, and having a good harvest without giving birth. You can't feel the sun and the moon high above you, and you won't feel dizzy when you step on them. The slope is steep. People don't make trouble when they come, and no one plays. No matter who holds the tree, there is no way out here. If someone has said it, don't ask who you love. Crossing the dome mountain and the sour pear tree is like crossing the wall of my hometown and reaching my backyard. This backyard is very small, with hundreds of acres of land. Dashan Liang's arms and legs live in this backyard, holding arms and legs tightly like a house. There are three willows in the yard, euphemistically called Sanqing Willow. It is said that the first person who landed in his hometown was buried there, watching the pulse of Feng Shui in his hometown and blessing the happiness of his thousands of children and grandchildren. I haven't discussed the following story carefully, maybe it's old and unknown. I just want to feel a kind of meaning and atmosphere, which reminds me that the natural law of life should be to live with heart, with emotion and with spirit. Just like these three Sanqing willows, no matter how strong the wind is, their hearts are in the same direction. No matter how hard it rains, they always avoid each other. They are United, caring and affectionate, as if no one wants to leave anyone and no one wants the other to leave themselves. For many years, they are still the same. There are also sour pear trees on the dome, which are extremely lonely. I think it cares not only about himself, but also the Sanqing willow behind him, perhaps because of the kindness of his hometown, perhaps because of the call of his loving hands.
I can't help thinking about the people in the tree. In the small village of my hometown, some families are very popular, while others are solitary. Anyway, we are all alive and care about this family. Among them, I have to miss a man named Dong Er. He is my cousin, the second child, his parents died young, he has no wife or daughter, he is helpless and has no future. There is only a strong temper in his bones, but he is by no means a bad person in his bones. He helped me a lot, gave me a lot of candy and said a lot of good things about me. I occasionally sent him steamed buns, salt water and corn rice cooked by my mother, but I never had in-depth communication and missed many opportunities to speak. Especially in the year or two when he was ill, I only sent him to the hospital once, bought medicine several times, and seldom went home to see him. The last message he gave me was "I haven't paid back the 200 yuan he owed me for medical expenses, for fear that my wife would blame me". His destination is to use poplars planted by his parents as coffins, and the house and relatives in the village raise money to do black and white things and walk naked to another house. During the Chinese New Year, we also gave him two packages of scribbled paper to protect the living from death. It was the most sincere memory to throw his brick at the grave on Qingming Day.
In recent years, with the growth of age, facing the emotion of life and death, I seem to become more emotional, with the feeling of tears and Qiu Si's death. The shortcomings of life are reflected on my head, lingering and inexplicable, as if I felt awake when I fell asleep and confused when I woke up. But how long can I sleep? In a blink of an eye, it was May again. The sour pear tree on the dome of my hometown should be dressed in green, with eyebrows painted and low eyebrows making faces to seduce summer girls. May Day, is it time to go home? At least it's time to go home. Unconsciously, I began to hum my own poem again-
May 1
Go home.
Work once.
Even look at my parents.
Even if you hit the thugs to help.
Life is not just now.
There are fields in the distance, which are poetic.
Life is not just a distant life.
There are also my hometown and my parents in the poem.