Home, is a barefoot walk through the alley, the bluestone slab is slightly cool; it is the rain under the eaves of the green tile, reaching out to take it; it is the figure of Grandma idly wearing Jasmine in the courtyard in the afternoon.
Home, is in the shadow of the apricot blossoms in March, someone plays the flute until dawn; it is the news that when the spring water is born, the breeze is sent, and the peach blossoms are facetious.
Home, is the dew of the morning, refracting the first sun, is the cooking smoke of dusk, before the court, is the hand that touches the moonlight, like holding the gentleness of the night.
Under the cooking smoke, there are tired birds returning home, there are old cows coming home, there are mothers waiting, there are childish laughter.
It is as if all the wanderings in the human world are quiet at this moment; it is as if all the clutch stories in the world have an ending at this moment.
For thousands of miles in the world, I only go to you
When people walk in the world, they actually have a house in their hearts. Some houses are full of wandering and sleepiness; some houses are filled with bustle and noise; in some houses, the windows are bright and clean, and only the moon is like a wash.
No matter how you run, how you work, there is a corner in that house in everyone's heart, where there is a home, a hometown, a home.
Maybe it's just a piece of old moonlight, maybe it's just a similar landscape, or maybe just a rural sound that you overheard can awaken the wisps of sorrow and ferment into a heart full of sorrow.
In the porch of flowers and shadows, in front of the window of the moonlight Chanjuan, on a certain page of a book, in an ink painting, in a yellowed letterhead, there lived in the place called home, and all poured out thoughts called nostalgia.
The thousands of miles in this world seem to have no end, only home, is the punctuation in life, let us stop, wash away the wind and frost between the eyebrows, and let go of the sorrows in our hearts.
Home, is the spiritual garden in everyone's heart, next to the door planted a page of spring, full of soft time, someone quietly passed, he day, you know there are guests who have come, it is not me, it is the breeze, around the flowers, when going like poetry.
The family sits idly and the lights are amiable
Long Yingtai: Home is not a place, but a period of time.
Not everyone has the privilege of becoming a poet, but the road we have traveled is like writing to the years, to the deep letters to the grass and trees, those beautiful things, the warm times, are the lines of poetry we have written.
I like this season, although the season has lost all colors, but there are high hanging red lanterns, and festive colors.
Like this season, although the sky is cold, although the years are twilight, the time is dark, the years are getting farther and farther away, but there is enthusiasm for going home, hovering over the city.
Like this season, snow, falling white like a stream of time, plum, opened the past thousand years, only the lights of the world, illuminate a ride of years, warm a ride of wind and snow.
Waxing moon, like a picture of memory, just one glance, people can fall back to the old time, where there are homecoming wanderers, there are hot meals, there are peach charms that have resigned, there are spring unions for the new year, there are mother's smiles, and there are fathers' happiness.
Perhaps in everyone's heart, there is a window, the window is the wind and snow, the window is the fireworks people's home, the window is the chaotic smoke, the window is the warmth of the world.
Home, is an eternal address, the day under the eaves, simple and ordinary, Bang Xixia chopping firewood, white porridge soft glutinous, fireworks warm, is the branch can be relied on; to move the pen, soft flowers, grass moss, is the site can be sent; riding the wind as a white horse, qingshan Zhulu, creek and river pouring wine, is the eaves can stay.
Family sitting idly, the lights are amiable, those days of joy, folding and opening, are fragrant years, the line is written, are the news of the deceased.
May the mountains and rivers of the years be merciful and gentle
Ten miles of spring wind, far away with the news of a hundred flowers; summer cicadas, the lotus wind outside the window to send aroma; autumn moon is clear, the breeze cuts a string of chrysanthemums outside the hedge; the winter window contains snow, the wind sends plum calyx fragrance, at this time just listen to a cup of warm tea, look at the years of mountains and rivers, compassion and gentleness.
Murong Xi: The song of the hometown is a Qingyuan flute, which always sounds at night when there is a moon.
The sound of the flute can tie the cooking smoke of a village, can tie a small yellow dog that jumps up and down, can drip white dew, can stick to the frost, can hold the sun and moon like a shuttle, and the white colt that crosses the gap.
At the intersection where spring is approaching, missing a page of unfinished poetry, the spring wind will invite a hundred flowers to the earth, and will also fly dust on this path. Maybe you will pass by, maybe it will be just a shallow call, then I "willing to be dusted with water."
Waxing moon, the years look back, time refreshed, may you have things to warm your body, someone to warm your heart, the world is safe.
The most beautiful scenery is the way home; may you have the dream of moving forward, and also the direction of going home.
In the human world, the mountains are high and the moon is small, the water is flowing, and the joy is a fool.
One year old and one gift, may the morning and dusk depend on each other, the four seasons rejoice, may you go all out, and live lightly in the clouds and the wind.