My hometown, my village and my mother's river are flowing quietly. Sitting on the dark shoulders of the mountain, I can see the wind rippling back to the smoothness of the flowers. The sweet and crisp fragrance of Sophora japonica blooms, and the winding wind is clothed with jasmine perfume. I stroked the tender grass beside my hand and looked at the green hills opposite. Clear locust trees covered the chest of this mountain. Birds are singing in the branches, and bees are butterflies. A river that runs through the village. My poem is a smooth stone on the beach, spitting out the foam of the river. Every stone is engraved with the tranquility and serenity of the village. Behind me is a locust tree forest. I'm more like a wild girl who eats Sophora japonica. I was barefoot, with my hands tied to my waist, watching me drink the spring water and eat the dew of the sun. I am beautiful, and I have been dreaming what my mother told me-walking-and the haze rising in the grass is constantly evaporated by the sun in the embrace of the wind. I saw all kinds of figures swaying in the distance, as well as the shouts of livestock and farmers walking freely, which are familiar to me. I walked home when the sun didn't set. Accompanied by the traction of fragrance all the way, I stood under the big pagoda tree at my door, facing the dozens of meters high tree.
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