What do you think is the most touching group of poets?

Liu Yangqing Sanmao's hometown is forty miles outside Nanyang, Henan. Grandpa spent half his life driving donkey carts. Dad grows crops. Three generations of bachelors pass on one son. My mother's parents reported Tianen's home. Before and after the Millennium, see early wheat, wheat, green barley and yellow. I always remember my mother spinning in the moonlight, putting down her children and making shoes in a hurry. I couldn't forget my father's fantasy, so I went to work at noon and I worked hard. Go to the kang at sunset and calculate how much ocean you can get this fall. Build at least two rooms next year and look forward to the growth of a wife. I can't bear the boy's thin shoulders and hoes. I just hope that the provincial capital will study hard. The boy will go to school, and his parents will bow and cry to the teacher. The sound of books under the children's lamp will make my parents sleep soundly. In the cold winter, I will be warmed by the mat and fan the bed. I just hope that the baby will not suffer from disasters and diseases. I will write sixteen articles about busy parents whose white soup and rough steamed buns are also fragrant. Everyone in the village will read letters and write books to pull people. The scholar in this world is that he broke away from his parents' ways, and learning costs money. It doesn't matter whether it works or not. I only hope that the future will be bright in the coming year, and I will tell my ancestors to report to Tianyangmen Sect. That year, the war was raging, and my parents were afraid. The boy panicked and sent him to talk about his classmates who walked together. I am in a hurry to pack thick pants and socks at night, and the dense uppers have nothing to say. The oil lamp was sewn in the corner and the old man dug up the ocean. I sew close-fitting clothes and blame my parents for being too busy. I just want to be young together. Only when I know that the fate of my flesh and blood is close at hand can I hear more cries and more light. Then I came to the classmate to buckle the window and shout. Three or five boys are in a good mood, but I haven't seen my parents make a fuss all night. I turned the oil cake over in front of the reed stove and wrapped it in thick greasy paper. I was so angry that the children couldn't bear to reach out and dig the old lady's eyes. I choked and said that it was hot on the road. I took the thread and pushed the lesbian several times, and the child had already strode away. Mother Hu can't be hungry. The figure of the child has been blurred. Willow trees come to western Western jackdaw in autumn and winter. My parents cried all over the sky. I don't care. After 30 years, my father died, and I didn't open my eyes. I walked to the grave road and looked at the door of the crib. I look at green trees every day. My mother cried a thousand times, but my son didn't die. I only saw green. Willow, my son will not die. When my son was in a foreign land, the villagers begged for wood to burn firewood. I hugged Liu's waist. This is my son's dream. Who took my life to fight for it? The villagers dragged me forward and said that my mother had been knocking her head on her knee. I thought of a tree and hacked my mother to death, struggling before I died. A choked cry-"My son" closed his eyes and it rained for ten years. Another child only told your father that your mother had gone to her father's and died. A thin coffin was still her mother's door. It is a willow, a willow, a willow, a willow, a willow, a willow, a barley, a yellow, a pillow, a yellow dream. When you wake up today, you will know where your parents were when they raised their children. They will cry in their ears, crying loudly and regretfully.