[Prose] nostalgia
Author: He Jiaxiang
Whenever I returned to that hometown, there was always a trace of pity and a series of sighs. Speechless, even more silent. Wandering habitually, seeing all the urban buildings and forests, but still love the green water of the mountain village.
Floating with one heart, it will eventually lead to the field. I don't love the congested and troubled forks of the city, I dream day and night of the old road, the path that hides a lot of sadness. People are old, the road is still the same. The road is small, and the grass and trees are luxuriant.
Walking on the secluded country roads, the wind, gently blowing, the rain, quietly passing. The mud is a bit annoying, but it also makes the heart a little comfortable.
Pick up a pen and condense it, strange for several years. The days of not moving the ink paper also affect the tide of breaking the that picks up the mood and falls into print. Outside the window, spring has arrived, and the flowers are scattered.
In the wind and rain, the green and emerald green are stacked. The wind blows, and the tear marks dry. Inside and outside the rain wall, the thoughts rushed away, how to stay entangled and bitter.
The stream embraces the old silent stream, and the willow bank shexiang comes from the mountain. The Zen sound of the distant temple rhymes quietly, and the nearby is the spiritual language.
Free spring incense petals, indifferent to a lifetime of feelings. The old curtains of the clearing windows repeat things, and the red sun and the moon are sad. The fiber embroidery is bitter and bitter, and the night and night drink are full of residual dreams.
That river took away a lot of sorrow. Swallows come and go, warblers and orioles. Who greened that fluffy forest? Who yellowed that patch of grass?
The red dust and tears of the past life rhyme and nurture the love of this life. The quiet mountain, alienated from the low shore rapids of the waves. The clouds and mist opened, the peaks and forests were ordered, the blue of the sky, silent, speechless. Melt away the bitterness of that frost vein.
How many spring flowers are consumed? The sound of the waves is poured out, and the words are sought in the air. The two get along, the head of the river. Where do the fallen leaves come from? Only the water and rain are left. The fireworks dispersed, and a lot of sorrow was over. Under the pen, the ink is dotted with moisture. The light wind blows the pavilion green screen curtain, the oblique sun shines, the Bright Lake is half blue, and the drunk tongsi painstakingly moved.
Jiangnan is a spring color, where to reunite in Shudi? Only remembering the years to have feelings, it is difficult to leave the vicissitudes of the broken dream. The blue moon greets the flight, and the cirrus clouds cover the stars and surround the air. Obsessed with the afterlife, only hate this life is difficult to penetrate the clouds.
Two marriages, one day? Looking at the flowers and willows, shame on the bits and pieces. A stream of streams has stopped the bustling locks. Outside the long pavilion, the bridge has a still flow of water. At the acacia, the Lotus Rhizome Mandarin Duck is the most floating.
The next day sends the bright moon, and the water picks up the first rise. The two faces thought the same thing, and returned from a different place. The wind, the rain, the mountain, the water... The surge was frozen, and the bonus was sent. Autumn is distant, and summer is speechless. Collected, laissez-faire, blinded by nightmares and resentments, and finally sighed in the depths of the world. The song carries sorrow, laughter hides hatred, before, after, between the present...
In a thick paved road, how many people's footsteps were hidden, diluted by the rain on the sticky mud. The sun dried the wet face again and again, and the frost froze the droplets that were about to rise again and again.
One generation goes by, and another generation goes on. Until the flowers bloom, and then until the flowers fall. Until sunrise, and then to the yellow. Sent away the smile, leaving behind the sadness. Sent away youth, leaving behind vicissitudes. The trees are tall and the roads are overgrown. The leaves are fresh and the leaves are broken, and the branches are bald. Cows go sheep come, ducks go back to chickens from. Ancient, new and prosperous. Novelty, old leaves withered.
The flowers are gone, and the charm is still there. There is no shadow in the hundred flowers, and the acacia flowers are hung alone. The green fruits are hanging, and the leaves are stretched out. A number of years of wind carrying, thick temperature and light sorrow less appropriate. Borrow a wisp of light smoke and swirl up the blue sky with the wind. Where birds sing, rows of locust shade are protected, strings of flowers move obliquely, fluttering winds, and bones fall into the mud.
Coming alone, and going alone, there are flower words in several thoughts, and there are red intentions in several clouds. Looking at the sky, I was blind. Fly away, that beating heart. Come back, that one family. The sound of the field is loud, and the green sound is continuous. A fertile pine rhymes in spring, and a long shadow hides the years of death.