Since then, the whole family with his father went to Sichuan. A small village, there is no cough grandfather, love to walk under the acacia trees Zhang, and village niu and those folks have to stay in the station from the other side, as if hardly touch the distant dream. Life completely changed its appearance, I live in a strange city became home to a temporary accommodation into permanent address hug, became homesick Sichuanese. But in the depths of memory, that lofty sky in the north, the north wind is still lush, Poplar is still noisy, I was still young, the roadside flowers are childhood innocent smile. So I am in the spring term of the rose-mei, Lin Tong fan I am in the summer of smoke across the blue water, I always miss every night in the Land of Abundance, and is still on the barren Loess Plateau, a small mountain village. It Palette general saving my childhood laughter and tears, naive and innocent, collections are Jin Xiang Yu. I was rolling the Jialing River in the heart of the drought and water shortage in northern; osmanthus fragrance in the evening, way back past the yard of the sparse rain Indus; night in lonely and helpless innocent smile niu thoughts. Nostalgia ray, and indeed the length of the Yangtze River eastward actually.
Study on three pharynx, Qine West Side CHANGCHUN COMMUNIST. CHANGCHUN COMMUNIST annual Green is the Willow, Baling not hurt.
Years later, I finally returned to their homeland.
When the sun slowly rising, I came to the Dream of the Department of the Village, stomp this winding road, even some close to his homeland scared. Is still the village before the village, but had removed it, all the courtyards have been abandoned. Wind around, and saw the old cave, like a mesopore were blind eye sockets to make wind and rain, with melancholy eyes, as I meet, who is the weeds that are collapsed Duanqiang rocks. Front of the village school is in ruins. A trip from start to finish, in addition to the general form of the village before the other with nothing. I was playing front of this deep-seated the desolate Mongolia. What, former village teacher, niu, there are those folks that you are gone? You all right?
Leading to a small village in memory of the kingdom, a small road, turned into an echo valley, in addition to the wind, I can hear only the cries of your heart. When I finally came home in front of their old, gently pushed open the old door, I saw weeds, Laying the floor, sometimes starting from the heart sad. Fingers lightly brushed the windows have decals, dusty furniture, and peeling off the wall paintings, trance I saw sitting in a chair smoking grandfather, busy preparing the mother, and their and siblings play in the yard, play the scene, could not help a hot eyes.
Things change, what can not hold to go have to go nowhere to spiritualism.
Originally, a small station allows me to go back to the hometown, but never return to the old days. Those sorrows and joys are scattered over in the wind, and now there is no grassland clustered flowers, and no childhood.
Across the years, I was dreaming. Dreams, the flowers were the last two I do not know ... ...
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