Touch the railings in the city and see the fragrant soil in my hometown.
I thought of Qianshan's father who was outside the dirt.
At that time, my father walked like the wind.
Change the posture of weeding, close to the soil with farm tools, love the soil and kiss us.
Roll across the field in March.
at that time
I don't have rich poems growing in the fields.
Over my father's head
Stand like a father.
This is what my father expected of me for many years. After leaving my hometown for many years, a hunchbacked figure is vivid in my mind.
Standing in September with a shiny sickle in his hand
Stand on the golden ridge in September and bless.