Standing in the wind, my white hair sighs like hay and my arms are as thick as the earth. Too much suffering and hardship are wrinkled on the desolate and withered face.
The sound of smoke is calling, still vague in the dream. The doll who stole mulberries blinked, unable to understand his father's deep idea that he could germinate seeds but could not, and planted pinyin letters and Chinese character strokes into bean sprouts or mulberries.
When I grow up, my father and I stand under the same roof, facing the wind and rain, and have nothing to say. Our dry eyes are like two rusty keys that can't be opened, and two misplaced hearts. Perhaps, only the silent expectation and the tacit understanding of the soul are the best feelings and expressions of the father and son. ...
two
Reading my father's crooked figure is like reading the bent straw in autumn, an obscure and heavy life. Dedication has become the only and best theme in his life!
My father's paddy field, planted with rice, is also thriving with my endless childhood memories.
In my dreams, I always shake the golden ears of rice in August. I often see my father standing in the golden sunshine, watching the rolling rice waves affectionately, and then walking into the rice fields with my father to experience the sound of autumn harvest sickle: whoosh, whoosh, whoosh ... excitement and pain have also created this land.
Watch the geese return to the south. My father stood up, leaned back, and looked at the array facing south, triumphant. My father smiled and patted him on the back. ...
Oh, this is another rare harvest year!
three
In this way, my father wrote his most affectionate, proud and heartfelt poems on this land year after year! My father's poems are getting higher and higher, and I am growing up ... I am also maturing in my dreams, but my father's increasingly rickety figure is getting more and more sad in my heart. Ran Ran in Asahi gradually leans to the west, the calendar on the wall drops day by day, and a withered old well can no longer spray spring. ...
My growth also means that my father is aging, just like my father's shadow. He bent down and never stood up again until he lay heavily on this land. ...
four
Ah, how I wish my father would become an indelible memory like the rice shadow that will remain in my mind forever.
Now, my father's rice fields have disappeared with him in history, deeply immersed in my heavy history, and overlapped into a portrait of modern life! Instead-ponds and buildings, I don't know if this is progress or retrogression.
Fortunately, fortunately, my father's body, which was finally bent, and the shadow that fell as heavily as the ear of rice … always gave birth to many seeds of poetry in the tears of my memory!