In the summer, the Riorgai steppe
Father was a soft meadow
Author: Wen Bo
Father was never a mountain
Nor is it a big river
It's a soft meadow
When we were children, we grew up on this meadow
Father collected our willfulness and naughtiness
Also collected our stumbling
It's just that father never speaks
Quietly by our innocence in his body
When we were young, we galloped on horses in this meadow
Father collected our tears and laughter
Also collected our stampede
Quietly, we crawled over him
In middle age we enjoyed time on this meadow
Father collected our luxury and pride
Also collected our stumbling blocks
Quietly by us in his body radiant
When we have walked through thousands of mountains and rivers, thousands of rivers and mountains
When my father is gone in old age, we know
That meadow is the softest place for us
Source: Shanghai Wenbotang Urban Research Institute Author: Wenbo
This article was commissioned to express the thoughts of a child of the Ruoerge steppe for his father
Editor: Artis