See the smoke from my hometown again, that "heavy" smoke.
Standing at the entrance of the village, the breeze was mixed with blue smoke. There was no scent of flowers or grass in it, but it only gently stirred the hair on the forehead. This breath that arrived as promised was simple and elegant. The long-lost bath drove away the dust from my body, and a sweetness like marshmallow emerged spontaneously.
The blue sky is like a curtain, with a few snowy clouds dotted in it. The cool breeze blows up, causing the leaves to chuckle. How much I like the smoke from my hometown, holding up the traces of time.
I saw the smoke from my hometown again. It was the smoke from my grandma boiling water, the smoke from my aunt making snacks, and the smoke from my mother cooking. Looking from a distance, I saw the uncle returning from hoeing on the field ridge, walking towards the familiar wisp of smoke, his tired steps seemed particularly brisk. But those playful children still had no intention of going home, and seemed to be waiting for the long and short call that resounded throughout the village.
This warm picture is comparable to Tao Yuanming's "Peach Blossom Spring". But now cooking smoke has disappeared in my city.
In the early morning, the rising sun, the abbot’s light, and the sparkling river surface are like a golden winding dragon lying across the earth; at dusk, the setting sun sets in the west, leaving a trace of light on the source of the river. Blushing, the late-singing fishing boat floats on the river, full of joy and happiness, like a perfect painting; late at night, the deep blue sky is studded with stars, and infinite reverie rushes to the east with the flowing water, as if it is a jade belt covered with gems. . Everything was as it always was, except that the wisp of smoke went away quietly like the wind. Maybe, people think that cooking smoke brings more harm.
—The thing that is most easily forgotten is the smoke from the kitchen, and the thing that should not be forgotten the most is the smoke from the kitchen.
Cooking smoke is quiet and indifferent. It can always rise and tremble in the mountains on time; it can always float peacefully from every thatched hut in the village; it can always follow the wind. The footprints quietly passed through the pine forest ahead. The shadow of nature appears careless and traceless under the wisp of cooking smoke, but this green happiness extends from the foot of the mountain to the top of the mountain, overflowing with light and refreshing.
Cooking smoke, only cooking smoke, grows in this manner throughout its life, because it deeply understands that food is hard to come by, and when it goes, it takes nothing with it. When a crisp bird song breaks through the morning fog at dawn, and when a ray of morning sun breaks through the thick clouds, it rises slowly. Grandma once said: "This smoke is the speed at which people really grow." Silently watching the smoke fly up, rise, rise... straight to the sky in the past, that is the height of childhood.
But now, the flowers have withered, the grass has withered, the earth has become decadent, and the mountain walls have become only bare rocks... everything has become decadent and desolate, even the wisp of smoke. Gone forever.
“I saw the smoke rising again, and the twilight shone on the earth, which brought back my memories. There were bursts of smoke, where are you going?...”