Through the rainy season, across the thick ice and snow rings.
I find you most beautiful in spring, if you say it happily.
Where is your spring? Your eyes tell me.
I put all this in the eyes of spring.
Chapter 2: "Where has all the time gone?"
There is a bowl of noodles on the stage, which is for him, dear.
He never looks at her seriously and she never blames him.
The sun shone on her cheek, and years made it no longer smooth.
I've worked hard and been in a hurry all my life because he called her mom.
Where has all the time gone? Leaving only her hurried hair.
Living a hard life, she never said she was tired.
Where has all the time gone? Leaving only her hurried white hair.
No regrets, but she only cares about him.
Chapter 3: Dream Town
In my dream, there is a small town where one person can live.
There is no messy market, not many residents, and it is deserted.
There is only one garden, only one big tree and only one fallen leaf.
Only a bunch of flowers, only a layer of fog, only a breeze.
Still secretly hiding-shallow love, light worry.
Deep love, quiet attachment, my dream girl, living in my dream town.
Chapter four: Our post-80s generation.
Hair bean sprouts, sweet roots, malt extract, haystacks, bird eggs and fried cow dung, our eighties.
Jumping frog rolls rubber band marbles, picks up a stone and jumps over the house, our eighties.
Play house in the afternoon and cool the bed after dinner, lamenting the wonder of fireflies.
In the fantasy story, we are in the eighties.
Looking forward to the fireworks of the Spring Festival, greedy rice crust, listening to the beating of maltose cakes.
In the vendor's rattle, I'm afraid my mother will call me home.
Birthday without cake, but marvel at the plumeria and hand-painted greeting cards in the bowl.
Bouncing home with big red flowers, the long-awaited popcorn.
Our eighties. On the way to school, frogs croak in the fields.
On the way to school, the ducks quack in the pond, oh!
And the guy who threw a stone and was almost bitten by a goose with a big head, our eighties.
We learned to ride a bike by leaning on the beam, although we have experienced countless tumbling and climbing.
Standing on the small bench, my face was covered with tears, but I was eating my own food, and I was still a little embarrassed.
Roasted corn roasted sweet potatoes, drained oil residue around the stove, our eighties.
I dreamed of growing up at that time, but now I yearn for him at that time. 10 years later, our 1980s became a memory.
Just like snowflakes that haven't been seen for a long time in winter in the south, our 80 years will not be mentioned again after 20 years.
I'm more tired of the sauce vinegar tea in my life. Do I remember it 50 years later?
In the 1980s, when memories turned into stories, I told my grandchildren what it meant to catch a child and turn a corner.
Chapter 5: You are eternal in my eyes.
I am like Xu Zhimo, writing poems for you, for your young past and for your prosperous life.
The long river of happiness is like a never-ending dream. Looking back at the whole city, it is like the most beautiful glow in the morning.
The door of memory, which was once as thin as a veil, opened, and an endless flood of memory poured in for you.
I'd rather drown here, indulge in the moment when I first met you, and only wish time and space were still.
Since then, you and I have lived in the eternity of time, without separation from others. In my eyes, you are the only one in the world.