There is no room for more than a ladle of rain under the high eaves.
The water under the eaves is mixed with many heavy days.
The stone steps in front of the door were covered with round holes, large and small.
That's the stone steps that my grandfather personally asked craftsmen to chisel decades ago.
Few people have stepped on it for many years, and the steps are covered with moss.
From the thinnest cyan number, layers are tired into rough black.
I just realized.
The stone steps are old, and the old man is older.
The water dripped on the moss and burst, making a dull noise.
This is the sigh of the stone steps, and my grandfather doesn't sigh.
The old man didn't say a word, and the rape blossoms in spring.
After the autumn harvest, the yellow-brown dead leaves fell on the fruit trees.
I saw my grandfather climb the fruit tree and cut off the extra branches.
The remaining branches will sprout and blossom next year.
The mountain breeze here is the simplest hope I have ever seen.
I will dry everyone's sweat and tears in the future.
Before the warm sun approaches the western hills.
Every old face will be rejuvenated.