Once, with a full passion, I met corn, potatoes, sweet potatoes and rice. Each full seed, soaked in the sweat of the mother, shows its piety. When I return to this season, from the eyes of a white cloud drifting, the weight and pain that flow out, the dripping thoughts in the corners of my eyes!
In the autumn fields, the sun penetrated the mother's back, and the mother's calloused hand held the sickle, cutting the old years, forming a heavy question mark behind a stubble of heavy rice waves!
I couldn't get a close touch of a crop, because every harvest was filled with the pain of my mother's joints, the sticky longing. At this time, I want to use the poems growing in the soil and the Chinese characters scattered casually when sowing seeds to collect them into the autumn granary.
The autumn wind blows away the wilderness and blows fruitfully.
In the smell of rice fragrance, it is covered with the wrinkles of the mother. Between the crops and the sky, I am the smallest. In the vastness, the only thing I could touch was the crops, which still maintained the simplicity, monotony and classicism of previous years. This land, which my mother had sown a thousand times and ten thousand times, still feels strange and mysterious to me. Although her mother was not praised by the autumn wind, she still kept the land that did not let the whole village starve, and the time passed for a long time...
One day, I sneaked over this field, ready to ignite hope in the distance. In a foreign land, I had no place to live and wandered around. I don't want to write about the moon in my hometown, but I write about the night. I don't want to write about my mother's kindness, but it is sad to write!
In the autumn breeze. Blowing a long thought and concern. I decided to take a trip home to see the familiar field and touch the old cow that had been blown thin by the wind. Smell the smoke from the roof and listen to your mother's bitter cough.