1. My mother, wife and children are walking in the field. Early spring in the south, the new green is thick or light, the buds are dense, and the winter water is gurgling. The mother followed the child's wishes and embarked on this road. Beautiful paths in the sun, sparkling fish ponds, Lai Huajin and Sang Shu Qi, my wife and I carry our mother and son on our backs, and the whole world is on our backs.
Ordinary warm affection flows in the slow and steady steps of my wife and I.
2. The breeze blows through the past years, blowing on the white hair, and the slowly falling maple leaves are engraved on each other's faces. There seems to be a natural tacit understanding, walking slowly without saying a word and enjoying the scenery along the way. In late autumn, the birds' calls are even lighter, as if calling me.
Looking back at every step of life in the past, it is a long road, a long life, from day to night, from black hair to bald head, through desolate alleys and intersections.
Walking through the breeze and light rain, walking through the bright future, holding your hand, it becomes drier and drier but always warm as sunshine, shining on my heart and your lips. * * * Every day and night we walked together became deeper and filled with stars. We looked at each other, smiled at each other, and then turned to go home.
3. In the shallow night, the bustling square above the square is like a grand party, towering around like a pot of tall buildings, which is his wings to soar.
Under a lamp, the ancient and rare old man plays the bamboo flute horizontally, on the shallow night side. The lively square, like a grand party, is like a basin surrounded by towering buildings, which is his wings to fly.
Under a lamp, an old man played a bamboo flute, while another group of people echoed. Every song is related to nostalgia, not news broadcast or focus interview.
Melody, sometimes deep and lyrical, sometimes flaunting youth, sometimes praising the times for several children, tying their innocent happiness on the pulley of roller skates, and sometimes they spread their wings and fly.
They don't care about the down limit of stocks, let alone the rise and fall of house prices, and don't care about oil, salt, sauce and vinegar. They are happy angels, a group of newly blooming flowers and nebulae, hidden in the night, leading semi-old Xu Niang with soothing dance music. Their elegant posture makes their youth known, and a breeze blows.
Their skirts are flying, telling stories of their past charm. A group of white doves were locked in cages, flapping their wings, and pouring out their ideals of flying to idle people. With expectation and longing, they seem to say, give me freedom, I want to fly.
Idle people throw the whip in their hands and vent some emotions in helplessness.