Wandering thoughts are like fog, rain and wind.
Writing about the yellow land of my hometown with my heart can never keep up with my father's footsteps.
I can't measure the scale of my father's dream.
Cooking smoke, floating over the countryside.
It was the mother's watch, calling for the return of her distant son.
I admit, I am not a poet.
My language is as poor as my hometown.
I want to write, try my best to write a state.
Squeeze a little fresh juice from my dry mind.
Interpret the beauty of hometown into an idyll.
Wildflowers are in full bloom, dotted with the homesickness of wanderers.
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I love this land. If I were a bird,
I should also sing with a hoarse throat:
This land hit by the storm,
This river of sadness and anger will surge forever,
This endless wind,
And the gentle dawn from the forest ...
And then I died,
Even feathers rot in the ground.
Why do I often cry?
Because I love this land deeply. ...
Outside the chapter, you stand on the bridge and watch the scenery.
The landscape man is watching you upstairs.
The bright moon decorated your window,
You decorated other people's dreams.
Wrong. I walked through Jiangnan.
The appearance in the season is like the opening and falling of lotus flowers.
If the east wind does not come, catkins will not fly in March.
Your heart is like a little lonely city.
Like a bluestone street facing the night.
The sting doesn't ring, and the curtain doesn't open in March.
Your heart is a small closed window.
My dada horseshoe is a beautiful mistake.
I am not a returnee, I am a passer-by. ...