Poetry recitation in praise of the elderly

The wind chimes in the corner are rusted. Endless past, talking with the passing rain, chasing the rhythm of the wind, gray chill, dispersed, in the running water at night. In the wind, in the dream, the thin singing is the trace of the wind. Half-life, Jiazi age. Dedication, stay in the past, peace, stay in your heart. Like an old vine, the lines crossed by the wind are deep memories and words of the wind. The harvest is heavy and quiet, which is the footprint of the years. Full-bodied wine is washed by years. Who doesn't have a past? At that time, there was a strong body; At that time, I could work all night, or, in my spare time, I played cards all night, made noise and talked happily. Unconsciously, the body that has been dedicated for half a century is gradually worse than before. However, I still stubbornly tell myself that I am not old. You can also cut potatoes and stick them on the knife surface. They are as thin as hair, soaked in water, crisp and tender, white and greasy. You can also stay up late, drink two or two liquors, put the change under the lighter, smoke a cigarette from time to time, and play small cards at night until midnight. You can also hold your baby, shake your body constantly, comfort the child in your arms, get up in the middle of the night and touch the diaper and pull the quilt. You can also read the newspaper again, take out the glasses wrapped in cloth, put them on your nose and write about the past changes in the factory. Suddenly, looking at myself in the mirror, it turns out that the years have traces after all. In the sparse hair, the white stubble is getting denser and denser, and the chest that I thought was tall and straight is slowly bending. I'm getting old. Bright wind chimes are dim in the dust. However, it has been playing for half a century. Indifferent, lonely, thinking about the changes of life, in old age, draw a satisfactory full stop. The sun in the west is red and half empty. Colorful clouds, implicated in rainbows, spread in the sky. What a nice evening breeze! Let's urge the wind chimes to speak again. You must personally write the thread in the hands of a kind mother.