#为人父母的忧伤 #
Full of memories are the shadows of old houses, the sun shines through the lattice windows, the wheat straw burns in the stove, and a wisp of fragrant cooking smoke passes around the beams... The years are always merciless, it takes away the old house, it can't take away our thoughts, the memories are unforgettable raindrops, and we still love it many years later.
Young new house, the orange river in front of the court, the grass of Shaoling behind the court; the green roof, the fiery red persimmons are full of branches. The rain washed the land golden, the blue sky into white clouds, and the dirty faces of the children into red apples.
Ancient cicadas are singing, butterflies are dancing; the fertile land is home to young children, free and uninhibited, transparent, drunk with sweet spring water, drunk with jumping grasshoppers.
This land quietly listens to the thousand-year-old song. The autumn wind just passed by, hanging the last piece of red maple under the eaves. It was silent for a long time because of the noise of its youth, just as the noise was always shallow. But I often look for wisps of village smoke hidden under the thick fog, looking for lost wicks in the vast night. When the red maple falls with the fragrance of pine resin, it is completely touched by a long absence.
I thought those old times would never be seen again. Until one day, dusk fell. Under the golden sky there were golden straws of wheat, which were piled up taller than a human. The children lay on it and laughed, and the adults squatted beside them, smoking a dry cigarette pot, sucking and sucking and fishing something from the bowl, and putting it in their mouths.
Not far away, the neck of the jujube tree stretched out and looked at this side, people were talking and laughing one by one, the wind gave people a cool breeze, and the aroma of an earthy fragrance could not be emitted.
When the rings of the years are deep in the heart, they have long been imprinted with the footprints of growth; the old trees in front of the door have the appearance of vicissitudes, gently peeling off in the wind and rain, silent. In your old age, you are sleeping deeply under the setting sun. The burly body, like a Buddha, is still standing, I crawl under your feet, the red dust is rolling away, and the restless heart is gradually at peace.
The moonlight is like water, so quiet; this spring, the day of Yao Tian Shun, the dead vines have sprouted new branches. I am devout, twisting a grain of earth incense, surrounding you, turning the prayer cylinder of the past life, and remembering the encounter in this life.
Don't praise your majestic posture, don't envy your former magnificence. Just pray, reveal your soul before you, repent of yourself.
Years later, from the starting point back to the original point, the road is still that road, the sky is still that sky, and the fallen leaves are no longer the original green buds, and they have been rolled over several times and have been disheveled.
As soon as a person dies, his real life becomes a story. And after the life of a villager ends, a complete era has passed.
Who put the red dust in the wind and moon, whose shock made the red silk ribbon suddenly appear; Mo said, Mo said..., full of endless disasters, can only secretly hide you.
The land that is old is not old, there is the tranquility of autumn; there is more clarity, less roughness, more humility. Let people have a flexible wisdom, let the world appear exquisite, and history has more infinite charm.
The land that has aged has left countless footprints, and it has also left the hope of a generation, and it is engraved in the heart without looking for it. After many years, you became me, and I became you.