Father, I want to find your smile.
Think back to your voice and smile.
I can't find it anymore
How much have you suffered in your life?
How much pleasure did you enjoy?
Children should be filial.
But you have gone to heaven to smile.
Leaving only children to lament their troubles.
Ah, father!
Do you remember that ballad? ...
Think about your back.
I find it very difficult.
Touch your hand
I feel difficult.
Unconsciously, your sideburns have grown white hair.
Quietly, you have wrinkles around your eyes.
My old father
My favorite man.
The sweetness of the world has ten points.
You only tasted three points.
Be your child in this life.
I didn't do enough.
Please, next life.
Be my father.
Listen to your suggestion.
I took over my confidence.
Look into your eyes
I saw love.
Young and old, you are smiling.
No matter how hard and tired you are, you have a warm face.
My old father
My favorite man.
There are three pains in life.
But you got 10.
Be your child in this life.
I didn't do enough.
Please, next life.
Be my father.
My old father
My favorite man.
There are three pains in life.
But you got 10.
Be your child in this life.
I didn't do enough.
Please, next life.
Be my father.
My old father
A writer wrote an article in memory of his mother. You can learn from Leaves Are Tired Butterflies.
The setting sun is getting older and the west wind is getting tighter.
When the leaves fall, autumn falls on the fallen leaves. Autumn has come, people lose weight, with autumn troubles.
But the golden leaves are not sad. They know how to comfort themselves in the autumn wind. They know that they are asleep, waiting for a new awakening.
Falling leaves have the advantage of falling leaves, so you can no longer fall into the entanglement of love; Falling leaves have the beauty of falling leaves. This is a tired butterfly. I can even feel the leaves crying softly.
At that moment, my heart trembled slightly, like one of many fallen leaves.
I saw my hometown, saw the endless old trees in front of my hometown, and saw the smoke swaying because of the return of wanderers. For feet far away from home and wings flying to the sky, kitchen smoke is a rope that will never break. It's like a road.
The branches of a big tree point to many roads, with only one starting point and one ending point. Everyone who left the village took away a green leaf, but left one root behind.
I saw the cliff in my hometown, and I saw the stones on the cliff, competing with flowers to bloom; I saw the sheep on the cliff, competing with the clouds to float.
I saw my roof. It was full of ice in winter and birds were singing in summer. A string of red peppers is often regarded as a fire in poor days. Sparrows flying on the roof always live in harmony with peasant families. It is this eave that has been winding around the heart on the road.
I saw my mother. In order to prevent us from freezing in winter, she picked up the dead branches one by one, as if to decorate those broken days one by one and then give us warmth. The woodpile is getting higher and higher, but mother is getting shorter and shorter. I
Seeing my mother's shriveled breasts, like two incomplete begging bowls, brought us a feast of life. The dim red flame lit by mother in the kitchen pit has become the only shoulder we can rely on at night and the only warm hand we can hold.
Fallen leaves come back to their roots. Am I old? We spend a lot of time striving for wealth, but little time enjoying it; Our house is getting bigger and bigger, but we spend less and less time at home; When I came back from the moon, I found it difficult to get to my neighbor's house downstairs. Conquered the outside world, but knew nothing about his inner world.
Traveller, what makes you anonymous? What brought you to another country? Autumn is like this, shaking off leaves and hanging people's thoughts on the branches. It's time to go back and see the big tree that gave birth to me, green because of growth, yellow because of maturity, and my mother sleeping in the fallen leaves. Mother, my hurried steps are your dense stitches. Mom, I'm going back with my tattered luggage, and I'm going back when I find heaven.
Layers of fallen leaves are laid on the way home, and I will visit my mother on the warm carpet. Mother is also like a fallen leaf, falling slowly from the brilliant branches, but she didn't wake up again. ...
In this world, it is not the house that can keep people, but the road that can take people away. Time can't stretch out a hand to catch the past clouds for you. If everything can be done all over again, mom, I will pick up your smile, footsteps and wind, make lamp oil with your love, and make twists with your goodness. I will light it and keep it in my heart, and I will never forget the way home.
It's cold, the leaves of the tree have fallen, and the tree is very close to me. I seem to hear them slowly solidifying.
It was cold, and they stood in a row, keeping the secret in their hearts and suffering. But the leaves fell and covered everything.
When my mother died, my heart lost its support and I suddenly felt that there was air leakage everywhere. But the strong wind has been blowing, and the dust around my hometown has been scraped clean. My small hometown is wrapped in autumn.
There is a tree in front of my mother's grave, which is a poem I wrote to my mother. Every autumn, leaves fall in succession, covering mother's grave tightly. Those fallen leaves that groan slightly in the wind, from a distance, are like a group of tired butterflies, quietly gathering the beautiful moments of their lives: a blush, an oath, or a simple sigh.