Looking at the hometown, the feelings are long (group chapter)

□ Ni Junyu

Look back at your hometown

In front of you, there is a bay of winding rivers. The affectionate river will flow through the ripe hot soil, through the swaying spring coconut groves. I heard the sound of clothes pounding in the shadows, sometimes high and low, splashing the sunset, splashing the warm and baking slang and folk songs... 

I also saw that behind the distant mountains hidden by the twilight, there was an old banyan tree with a beard, and the countryside years were hidden among the leaves. Under the tree, the starlight of the Aoi fan fan Wang's head, the shisha tube Ming extinguished the plot of the ancient... 

I also saw that in the vast expanse of the wilderness, there was a path through the rice fields, leading me timidly to the hedges covered with pea flowers, to the warm cooking smoke and lights... 

Oh, in that haunting place, 

There is the childlike fun of playing water fights, there is the flute chased by red dragonflies, 

There are hot eggs stuffed into the bag, there are milk names called by the old voice... 

I'm looking up, looking... 

Which cloud is under, which piece of starlight, 

Oh, my kiss, my kiss

hometown? 

Fields, rice fragrant season

Between the sound of frogs and rain, the sunset lingers and dances colorful streamers.

The autumn fields become gorgeous and colorful landscape paintings hanging in the living room of the dome.

After a gust of rain, the wind spread the refreshing aroma of rice in every corner of the agricultural proverb.

A wave of flashing golden light, with excitement, came over.

Over the canals, over the fields, over the cow moo, the flute,

The smiling faces of the villagers piled up with dark and hard work...

The golden waves roll over, patting the slopes of the drunken swaying coconut wind, waking up the villages where the cooking smoke has just drifted,

Clap the sound of the hoho grinding sickle one after another.

When the sharp edge of the bent sickle polishes the dawn, and the vehicle chases the tide like a sail,

The folk songs in the fields bloomed in a pool of sweat.

Stone bridge on the village road

Between the blue sky and green water, between the painting and the imagination, a flute blows across the air-

Blow the black and white days of the mountain village into colorful colors.

I distinctly heard the sound of the flute, flowing into a blue water.

On the ripples, there is the joy of the ducks playing in the water, the laughter of the shepherd boys playing water fights, and the waves of the raccoon women playing with each other.

I also heard the folk songs of earth and grass wafting from the flute holes, and the sunset on the back of the ox, trembling in the topsy-turvy.

The grass that covers the four seasons of the old farmer is the note in the ballad that the wind and dust of the years cannot cover.

Oh, and along the flute, you can interpret:

The deep and shallow overlapping ruts, the footsteps that chase the wind and rain;

The ears of rice that shine with sweatdrops, the melons that roll with fresh morning dew;

The bridge is full of all kinds of mountain goods, the trendy dresses that come and go on the bridge...

【Source: Sanya Daily】

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