Homesickness is my father's old straw hat and the winding path for my father to go back and forth to work; Homesickness is the call of the child printed by the mother in front of the old house, and it is a green vegetable in the vegetable garden.
What I miss is that Liu Bo took the hemp rope and the buffalo to the field; Homesickness is five aunts carrying long poles and carrying well water home.
Homesickness is a shining hoe in the corner, a golden ear immersed in the ground, and a fiery litchi hanging on a tree;
Homesickness is a small village child who goes up and down the mountain, and it is the kind of effort to climb trees and dig eggs; Homesickness is the beautiful village girl by the well and the dimples that wash clothes with rice.
I stand on the edge of autumn, imagining my hometown in the sunshine beyond the mountain. The rice fields at the head of my hometown village are still full of autumn rhyme. The villagers bent down in the field and kissed the golden ears of grain.
I stood on the edge of autumn, imagining the old tree that my children had climbed. There are a group of birds in the tree, waiting for the old tree. The sound of birds permeates the trunk, and the old trunk is printed with my wish to stay, which is also my mother's wish. She wants me to have a good life.
I stood on the edge of autumn, imagining the villagers coming back from the fields. In this way, they cultivated the land day by day. In the year after year, the life between sunrise and sunset is interpreted. Dawn is the starting line for them to leave early, and sunset is the finishing line for them to return late.
There is a voice that often rings in my ear. That's the voice of the village daughter-in-law calling her son. Whenever I listen to it, it takes my heart away, just like my mother told me to work far away from home.
There is a voice that often rings in my ear. That's the sound of crops breaking ground. Whenever I listen to it, I feel that the time is still the same, the mountains and rivers are still the same, the sea has changed, and Xia Chunqiu in winter.
There is a voice that often rings in my ear. That's the voice of villagers grinding millet. I feel heavy every time I listen to it, crushing the vicissitudes of life and the sorrow of the world.
That voice is eternal. It is not made of flowery words, but simply like an old straw hat, mixed with the smell of earth, the art of cultivators and the immortality of food!
That voice is eternal. Its wealth is the surging harvest season, which touched you, me and him.
There are two kinds of things growing in the soil: one is crops and the other is folk. Villagers love this crop, they * * * live together, breathe together, and * * * fate together. They will feel safe when they are barefoot; Only by cultivating them yourself will you feel kind. When the heavy rain soaks them, the villagers will promptly divert the accumulated water; When the drought hits them, the villagers will immediately introduce manna. Love crops like your own children.
The standing millet is covered with bitter gourd vines; A stout banana tree, a flowering litchi tree. Roots are deeply rooted in the broad mind like soil and grow in the sweat of crops.
I remember that the crops all over the mountain still hold their heads high after the storm, as stubborn as my obsessed cultivator;
I remember that the crops all over the mountain produced five grains and put them in the granary. The grains shone with the light of the cultivators.
I'm thinking: without crops, there would be no my poems, and there would be no me.