You leaned over and smiled at me. I babble, your songs curl up, I am a toddler, surrounded by your arms, in my eyes and heart, you are the wind, the rain, the warm sun in winter, and the prayer when my life is lost. The years passed quietly, the swallow nest under the eaves gradually grew full of wings, and the heart was far away, mixed with love and hate. I don't need to bear it. My mind is troubled. I don't need to crusade. The loneliness, wrinkles and fahua in my heart add to the aging of the years. You are still you, and I am still me. Mom, I really want to write a poem that will always praise you, but I'm always worried that I can't write it well.
Mom, you are the most beautiful poem in my heart. You are in every line, your smile is in my happy poem, and your sad tears are in my sad rhyme. Mother, every smile of yours is spring in my poetry. I only hope that everything will be the same and the years will be quiet.