Bing Xin's mother, for a long time, wanted to write a poem for you. She wrote it many times, but she still didn't write it well. Mom, I don't know how to start this poem for you, how to end it, or what to write. It's like slapping you hard when you were a child. I don't know whether to accept it bravely or choose to escape. Mom, I thought of you again tonight. I have decided to write a poem for you, even if it is not well written, even if you are far away from home, you will never read it ... Mom, if you see a small white boat in your dream, don't be surprised that he dreams for no reason. This is your beloved daughter with tears in her eyes. Wan Shui Qian Shan, ask him to take her love and sorrow home.
mother
Shu Ting
Your pale fingertips touched my temple, and I couldn't help grabbing your skirt as I did when I was a child. Oh, mother, in order to keep your fading figure, although the morning light has cut my dream into wisps of smoke, I still dare not open my eyes for a long time. I still cherish that bright red scarf, for fear that washing it will make it lose your unique warmth. Oh, mother, the running water of the years is as ruthless, for fear that the memory will fade, how can I open its screen easily? I cried to you for a thorn, and now I dare not moan with a crown of thorns. Oh, mom, I often look up at your photos sadly. Even though the call can penetrate the loess, how dare I disturb your sleep? I dare not show the sacrifice of love in this way, although I have written many songs, for flowers, for the sea and for the dawn. Oh, mother, my sweet and deep memory is not a torrent or a waterfall, but a dry well that can't sing under the shade of flowers and trees.