Mattel, Man Zi, Zhou Qiping, ice melting, Chen Huifang, Sanliang, Feng Qing, Yang Luo, Xiao Xian Jie.
Special Commentator: Huang Shuhui is relying on Luo Xiang to act as Xing Jun.
I will pack all the100000 green vegetables and send them to the staggered fields.
The seeds sprouted from memory last night, and the sunshine was so sunny.
Warmth gradually awakens the sleeping past.
Along the ladder of cooking smoke, I found my hometown when I grew up.
The color disappeared from sight and the smile began to dance.
The river passes through the belly of the village, and nostalgia begins to brew.
Enlarge the dream of one ear, and your mind will be broadened in an instant.
The countryside is under the clouds, harvesting the snacks of the earth.
When the spring breeze blows, 100,000 seedlings grow sturdily, covering the background color of childhood.
The grass is unsheathed, and the arrow of spring hits the red heart of the earth.
How many naked lives are embraced by thick green.
Be quiet, let me hear the voice of the earth.
Bend over the soil and salvage full ears of rice.
The mountains are happy, and the green is colorful.
When I smell my hometown, I will share the freshness.
Sitting in a wisp of wind is as sweet as a clam.
Kissing the countryside, weeping willows and playing in the pond.
Grain fragrance, autumn granary, hoarding solid hope.
Spores, rippling waves of pear vortex, swept through vilen in spring.
With the promise of rain, a word is associated with frogs.
Looking forward to the harvest, from the moment we sow hope.
Give me a spring breeze of growth and blow the soil of green memory.
Cut a bud, a quiet and vivid time.
The scarecrow has gone away, and birds are pecking at an empty river.
Pull a sky and clouds and talk about childhood fairy tales.
Neck pain, hanging on the plow and rake for farming.
Fruit, fragrant small yard, filled with autumn sky.
The local accent stuck in the throat is a child born in the village.
Clouds and mountains rain, flowers and snow pile up, and our poems are pure and beautiful.
There are cheerful lines of poetry in that field.
Immortal silver bells fluttered along the country road paved with weeping willows.
Listen, every bird song is my most familiar nursery rhyme.
Fireflies on summer nights weave dreams all night.
In the arms of dreams, happiness is higher than the sorrow and sadness of time.
The knife that pierced my heart stung every nerve in my body.
The emotion held in the hand is the love that the wanderer hopes.
In spring, as soon as you pinch your lips, my childhood and milk name will turn green.
Beat the past scenery and pick up our sentimental years.
Back, the spring breeze brought deep nostalgia.
Borrow my father's bronze color and hold a handful of dirt.
I saw my mother urging me to swim in the stream.
Looking for half a wall of earth, the bees climbed out of the small hole carefully.
In a ray of sunshine, my waist is straight and I speak with a local accent.
I dream of returning to my hometown after a long separation with the attitude of migration.
In autumn, when you whistle, my footprints and rings will grow taller.
The sound of spring tide, coquettish, cracked the dusty password.
Empty Yuan Ye, a mysterious world, has secrets that I can't touch.
Running barefoot in the field, the clothes of memory fluttered in the wind.
Calling with a local accent, I rode my birth name back from the mud of my childhood.
The flowing spring turns red in me.
Indulge in the vague and clear back, silent eyes.
Boil a pot of strong liquor with your thoughts and drink a cup with your hometown.
Let the sunset in Shan Ye burn wandering thoughts.
The joy of returning clearly covered the empty fields.
Before the arrival of the bee butterfly, Chai Fei, a pioneer, sneaked into the spring.
Bamboo smoke and white smoke, burning wasteland and weeding, mother's back is more bent.
After the cold winter, the wheat seedlings in the dream began to turn green.
Remember haystacks and stars, and remember the sun and moon that warm your life.
Think of the flowers, not the scenery in the dream.
Gently push away the waves of rape blossoms and cherish the golden time.
Weave a web, grab my roots and climb up.
The wisp of kitchen smoke in the village is my eternal concern in this life.
I am haunted by dreams, and my mother's warm kindness still flows through the river.
Feng, hijack everything, speak out and file out.
The river rushes forward, and the spring breeze is proud of the mountains.
The grass grows and the warblers fly, and My Sweetie's poems spread infinitely in the spring breeze.
I captured the image in the poem and built your horse's head wall and green slate.
Dancing shadows, hiding seclusion are climbing.
I wholesale tons of moonlight, flashing your forehead
Relax your breath and kiss your familiar heartbeat.
The jumping notes healed the once-missing emotion.
Abundance, embrace the earth, warm and heartfelt.
Without polishing, the village is green and pink with a stroke of a pen.
Escape from the world, what else can make me ruminate like a cow?
Stubborn, dreaming wheat seedlings grow wildly in my shallow smile.
Please turn me into a breeze tonight, blowing quietly to my hometown and my mother.
Look, handfuls of rusty sickles are jumping happily under the light.
I am in a hurry, my bags are full, and the footprints of love are burning all the way.
The distance between thousands of waters in Qian Shan conveys the warmth and coldness of the days with a string of crystals.
Listen, the spring thunder bursts, and the spring rain is calling for the early plowshares.
Love nourishes architecture, thoughts fly, and pastoral stands in poetry.