A Pool of Spring Water Wen / Misty Wet Floor
Jiangnan is good, the scenery is old and familiar, the sunrise of the river flowers are red hot, the spring river water is green as blue. I'm not sure if I'll be able to get a good look at it.
Zhuo Jun, you see this pool of spring water is blown away by the spring wind, is not just like the south of the Yangtze River as fascinating?
The mud is melting and the swallows are flying, the sand is warm and the mandarin ducks are sleeping. I don't know if the grass is long and the warblers are flying in March in Jiangnan, whether there is also some of this moving scenery. I have heard the lament of a woman in the south of the Yangtze River: I knew that the tide had a letter, married with the tide of children. Perhaps it was a young woman who was afraid to return to the empty room, and left her lines on the green willow, which were picked up by a talented man, and then became a legend that has been passed down through the ages.
Sitting on the side of the berry moss grass reflecting the body, in the green grass more green hanging down the thread, began my long and happy waiting.
Zhuo Jun, this pool of spring water, like your appearance, the country and the city, sinking fish and wild geese, the closed moon, sideburns such as a knife cut, eyebrows such as ink paintings, Oh, you remember that the song "error":
I played the south of the Yangtze River,
that waited for the season of the face such as the lotus bloomed and fell,
the east wind does not come, the willows do not fly in March,
Your heart is like a small silent city,
This is the first time that I have seen this, but it is a very important thing to know.
Your heart is like a small, silent city,
The streets are like the streets of green stone at night,
The sound of sound is not heard, the spring curtains of March are not uncovered,
Your heart is like a small, tightly covered casement,
My hoofs are a beautiful mistake,
I'm not a homecoming, I'm a passer-by,
I'm not a homecoming,
I'm a passer-by.
Perhaps waiting is a mistake, because of people's interpretation and fall out of the splendor?
How many hates, last night in the dream soul. The first thing you need to do is to get your hands on some of the most popular products and services in the world, and you'll be able to do it all in one place.
I'm trying to find out what Li Yu is waiting for, perhaps the warm tea in the hands of the courtesan, or the fleeting splendor of the dragon chair, and whether the lovely Zhuojun can give an answer.
The water is still deep, but underneath it, the fish are biting the hook. The surface of the water is flooded with a layer of faint ripples, like a dream gradually far away, the quiet evening wind sends the evening singing of the fishing boat, will be a wisp of sorrow blowing like smoke like fog like dust.
What is waiting?
Waiting is a bottle of fragrant wine. With the wine of waiting, life is like a painting.
Waiting is a cup of fragrant tea, and with the tea of waiting, life will be like a rhyme and a song.
Zhuo Jun, you see, I caught a carp, I put it back into the water, because I have fulfilled a wish, I have completed a waiting game.
Cherry Blossom Festival Wen / Misty Wet Floor
Lonely March, the cherry blossoms began to drift away. Every flower that blooms takes the place of another. And so each bloom meant the quiet, silent fall to earth of a small being.
Lonely cherry blossom fell a sadness, every fading, have sustained the author's heart. In the face of such a beautiful creature, everything in nature seems to have returned to tranquility at this moment.
Opening means dying, dying means rebirth. Breaking the cocoon into a butterfly is the dream of the spring bug in March. However, what comes out of the cocoon is often an ugly moth. From the moment they are born, they will never stop dancing, toward the moon, toward the candlelight, dancing a most beautiful dance.
The voice of the angels came gradually, distant and barren and serene. Some people use words to build a beautiful siege, so there are people willing to approach him, into the beautiful city he built.
There are also people who use words to express their hearts, their words are really like cherry blossoms, that is to say, that is to say, withered a sad place. The kind of beauty that makes people sentimental should only appear in the human heart, but there is no way to clean up.
Just like the fading petals, there is no way to clean up.
Who sowed the seeds of spring, is the hope of summer, and then turned into the golden color of autumn. Who shook down that tree of cherry blossoms, telling an untold story on every night when the bright moon hangs in the sky?
I think my words are the cherry blossoms, that is to say, the sadness of a place that can not be cleaned up, telling an unknown story.
March, I saw, cherry blossoms are floating away, some fell on the shoulders of the literati. And turned into immortal poems.
Coming and going is the fleeting life of cherry blossoms. You know, just like everything in heaven and earth, the life of cherry blossoms is also very short. I think, we human beings, like everything in heaven and earth, have been carrying on the relay of life, baton after baton, passing it down one after another. Now that it has been passed on to me, I am speeding down the long road of life as fast as I can.
The cherry blossoms also carry on the relay of life. Their life is too short, long a week, short two or three days, but intriguing is that, no matter how short life, each cherry blossom conveys the message of care, spreading the warmth of the human world.
They bloom silently, no matter which gust of wind will take away their light flower soul.
What floats in the wind is always a song of life.
Listen with your heart, and you will know that it is an ode to life. No matter how short life is, it should bloom with the splendor it deserves. No matter when the fading knocks at the door, it is necessary to compose a song of life with heart.
The baton of life, baton by baton, passed down to a certain cherry blossom hands, then contributed to the beauty of a flower.
Then I heard a sound of a flower crashing to the ground. I dare say it was one of the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard so far.
When one day a late summer breeze blew away all the beauty laid out by the sunny March, and when the cherry blossoms quietly drifted away in the last wisps of breeze, I took my notebook and caught the drifting blossoms, sealing them forever in my memory.
They, they cannot be forgotten.
They, at the same time, are not to be forgotten.
At least, I won't.
Another burst of cherry blossoms drifted past my eyes and fell to the ground, becoming a fragrant mound. What is buried there is a soul that will never die.
The Sound of Falling Flowers Article / The Foggy Terrace
May, there are no more flowers, but I suddenly want to hear the sound of falling flowers.
So I came to the forum to find the sound of falling flowers. I used everything I had to find it, the sound of falling flowers.
But I found nothing, because I had lost everything, I lost everything when I thought I was a refugee from Sichuan.
Those nights of flowers and snow, those times when the shadow of the flowers was on the window, were all like scattered fireworks, fading away in my memory in an instant.
I think I am a refugee from Sichuan, my legs are stuck in the cracks of the wall, my soul is wandering around, my ideals have been reduced to nothing in the disaster.
Everything I had, everything I had, was gone, including my dreams, my ideals, my tomorrow. What an empty place to die!
But I am not a refugee from Sichuan, so I have a tomorrow, I have a future, I have a dream. The road to paradise is too crowded, too crowded, I'd better catch the next one. I'd rather catch the next one.
But, my heart is not willing to be lonely and began a new round of search, I look for the future, looking for hope, looking for Sichuan refugees have been lost forever everything. I, all of it, want to retrieve it one by one and give it to someone I don't know on the next night of the full moon and flowers, and then tell it that what is contained in this parcel is the souls of 30,000 people, their dreams, their future, their hope!
But I can no longer find my way to heaven, just as I can't find the sound of flowers blooming.
When the flowers fall, I walk under the moon, I don't want to look for the sound of the flowers blooming, I just want to clear my messy thoughts under the moon. My heart is so messed up that I can't find my way,
But then I hear someone crying next door, and his cries are so sad.
I finally found it, I found the sound of flowers blooming.
And then I was still searching, the sound of falling flowers. The sound was so fragile, so unbearable.
But still I searched, for the sound of falling flowers. I suddenly felt that those flowers are still opening when they are falling, just like we are still thinking of all the beauty in the world when we are running to death.
I have found the sound of flowers blooming, but I have never heard the sound of flowers falling. So I went to my mother and asked her what the sound of falling flowers was.
Mom told me that the falling of flowers is such a sound that they fall silently, but if you listen with your heart and not with your ears, then you will hear the cry of the flowers. Even in heaven, they bless us silently. Just like those who have gone to heaven and they are shipwrecked, then they will silently bless the moment they die, wishing peace to the living and rest to the dead.
Bless you all, those who lost their lives in the Wenchuan earthquake, may you rest in eternal peace. I know that in heaven, you will also silently bless me and wish us eternal peace.
In heaven, your eyes are so bright. The stars in the sky will be transformed into your eyes and light up the way we came.
When night falls, when the wings of night cover the earth, when the eyes of the night watch me, I seem to hear the sound of falling flowers. I knew that it was a sound from heaven.
Summer Butterflies Article / Misty Wet Floor
Summer Afternoon
In the height of summer, the sun is so bright and the rain is so mercurial that I forget everything and just revel in this summer afternoon, that sunny afternoon.
I don't know how many more such afternoons there can be in the world, and whether we can still gently scoop up a handful of loose tea on such afternoons, and in the teacup made up of celadon, put the memories of a lifetime and with the sorrows of a life time, and soak all those memories in this tea, forever. Finally, when they all reach our mouths, a refreshing illusion spreads in our hearts.
It is like a tea that touches over and flows in all directions in the bottom of our heart, shedding all the memories of a lifetime in this heart, never to be erased.
Butterflies
There are a lot of butterflies dancing, in the ten thousand flowers, in the sea of fragrant snow, in the shade of the willow, in the spring dream, dancing.
And yet I wonder how many butterflies will break out of their cocoons and dance in the sunshine? Will there be more little creatures who will return to the shadows with one life before they break out of their cocoons? A thousand years of sighing is a thousand years of dreaming, no butterfly is willing to die in the cocoon, but still too many butterflies can not break out of the cocoon.
Even if you break out of the cocoon, I'm afraid you still can't have a chance to dance with the flowers***. For example, the butterfly in front of me.
Encounter
In the summer afternoon, I wandered alone in the doorway, the floor-to-ceiling windows will be isolated from me and the summer, but my heart, but also outside the floor-to-ceiling windows in the waves. I approached the floor-to-ceiling window, and unexpectedly realized that there was a butterfly of the summer.
I don't know when it came to my home, to my window, why it refused to enter my sight, into my heart?
But by the time I found it, it was dead, like the sunlight that dies in our hearts in summer.
Some sunlight hovers in the grapevine, some hovers on the shoulders of men, and some weeps in the hearts of men because it wants to shine in the dimmest of places.
This butterfly, with its wings of mottled red, was like a blazing fire on a summer's day. But the most unacceptable thing about summer is the flames. It would be best to be born in winter, but this is not winter after all, so its death seems certain.
I think that before it died, it must have looked at the light before it, and met the sunlight with its warmest gaze.
Then it kept tapping on the window, kept shouting, and finally, died of exhaustion.
Discovery
This butterfly in front of me has the most beautiful wings in the world, at least I think so, there is a goddess of light butterfly in Peru, which is said to be the most beautiful butterfly in the world, and it has the most beautiful wings in the world, as blue as the sky, but can it compare to this butterfly in front of me? The most beautiful butterfly in the world, it is dead.
In front of the transparent glass, it chose to live forever.
This is the way to die, this is the way to float, this is the way to come and go, this is the way to be unattached.
This butterfly is the most beautiful butterfly in the world, because it interprets the nobility of life with its own death, just like the cicadas that chirp endlessly in summer.
I looked at this butterfly, there is a clear spring flowing in my heart, it flows straight to the bottom of my heart, where an inexplicable emotion grows, I suspect that I will have to shed a tear for it, but when I really want to shed a tear, I am shocked to find that I have no tears.
This butterfly, the most beautiful butterfly in the world, its death seems to have nothing to do with me, but its beauty has long been soaked in my tears, my blood.
This one butterfly, this one butterfly that has aged! It is has resided in my heart for a long time.
Afterword: Anyway, I have encountered a butterfly, which is so beautiful, so mesmerizing, like the summer sunshine, like the summer sunshine that shoots through the glass.
The Taste of Snow Wen / Misty Wet Floor
Green ants, new spirits of wine, red clay small fireplace. The first thing I'd like to do is to get a drink.
I often wonder if, on that snowy day, when the snow dyed the countryside in the twilight, Bai Juyi really raised a cup of "new spirits of green ants," and asked Liu Xix, "Can you drink a cup of no"?
I think that is really a romantic snow season, there is really a person called Liu XIX, accompanied by Bai Juyi, while enjoying the snow, while spending the long dusk.
In other times, the same dusk, they can only shrink, snuggled in front of the stove, taste a cup of new wine, just in that dusk, that snow season, they tasted the flavor of wine outside. Today, a thousand years later, there is another scholar, reading "Ask Liu XIX", from those few short lines of poetry, he also tasted the flavor outside the wine - the flavor of snow.
The sky wants to snow, yes, want to snow but not snow, like "mountain rain", want to rain but not rain, and the wind has been full of buildings. Full floor of the wind mixed with the aroma of soil and weeds, will not rain a "sunken pavilion", dressed as a bride to be married in the boudoir.
That same is another flavor, we call it rain flavor.
The water is brimming with sunshine, and the rain is also strange.
The West Lake is more beautiful than the West Lake, and it's always the same.
The beauty of Xizi Lake lies in the fact that "light makeup is always appropriate". Yes, the rainy West Lake, so how many painters, literati exhausted the spirit, but also failed to draw out the West Lake in case. Guilin landscape, the strange eight nine, there is not a picture, can draw this one of the eight nine.
The future beauty of the snow and rain is the future. The first time I saw this, I was in the middle of the night, and I was in the middle of the night, and I was in the middle of the night. The pen of God, is to write the side of the beautiful scenery, is to write the future of the future state.
The West Lake, Guilin landscape, if only from a distance, rather than close to see, there must be another flavor. Just the literati too greedy, refused to give up a penny, this refused to give up, but made them give up a lot, and are unwilling to give up.
Is not in that want to snow dusk, they sing and spend a lot of good time. The north wind at first, blowing the face of the cold, a snowflake, drifting into the room, to the fire above, it turned into a cloud of smoke. They looked out the window, the window is not closed, will be a side of the snow scene set in the heart of the literati.
They spent that long afternoon looking at the snow scene.
Bodhi has no trees
My family used to have two mansions, and now there is only one left. The original one has changed hands a few times, but now I don't know who it belongs to. The most unforgettable thing about the old house is that it was not big enough to accommodate the five of us, and then it was hard to accommodate anyone else. In the summer, there will be neem flowers emitting a faint fragrance of medicine, but every rainstorm, our poor poodle suffered, it is living in the open yard, its kennel only a roof to avoid the rain.
So whenever it rained, the wind would blow the rain into its den, which was a very unfortunate thing. I remember that the dog was very weak, and its frail body prevented the poor fellow from walking very far, and it was always bullied by other dogs. My brother used to feed this dog and he always chewed over the buns and spat them out to the dog.
Then the dog went nowhere, and was said to have been carried away by someone, a stranger.
Later, our family also raised a few dogs, most of which did not end well, and two of the "brother" dogs were actually drugged to death, a tragic death.
Just those neem flowers on the roof, in my memory, has been emitting a faint fragrance of medicine.
Now that I have moved away from that mansion for a long time, I recall it from time to time, and recall those dogs who did not know what happened to them. Now we still have two dogs, one black and one white, black shiny, white spotless, one black and one white, but often remind people of the black and white.
I feel that there is a great happiness on earth, and this idea came to me suddenly after I saw the sleeping face of that dog. It was late that day when I woke up from my sleep and saw the dog, the black dog, the shiny dog, sleeping beside my bed with its eyes closed, sleeping peacefully. I suddenly felt serenity, I felt immense peace, I thought of my grandmother who was far away in the countryside, who had always taught me, taught me about Buddha, about Buddhism, I often fantasized about bliss, but I didn't realize that bliss was just around the corner - a dog, late at night, infinite satisfaction, infinite sighs of ... ...
Forget-me-not flowers, mimosa, linden trees, birds of bliss, there is bliss on earth, so why do you have to go to the Western Paradise to find bliss?
Maybe you don't understand what I'm talking about, you don't understand what I want to express, in fact, I understand myself, and that's enough. Some things are like this, you understand what you are thinking on the line, do not have to express to others know, the peach and plum do not say, the next from the fish, the wise man does not say, extreme happiness in the heart.
I think of the home of a linden, summer will be full of heavy fruit, the sun's patronage will make the linden full of summer flavor. Some people say that the fruit that has not perceived hard pain is the most delicious, and perhaps there is a truth to that, too.
The closest thing to the tree is the wind, and I don't think the wind, which doesn't exist, knows what the tree is thinking, let alone us. I say that the wind does not exist, just because the wind is nothing but the flow of air, itself does not exist, it is the air that exists, not the wind.
This flowing air does not know that it does not exist, and it does not know what the tree is thinking. And so the tree had its own bliss, which was a world of absolute silence. The tree has no eyes, no ears, not even a nose, and so it lacks perception of the outside world, but those so-called perceptions are nothing more than the self-righteous perceptions of human beings, and who knows if there is any higher wisdom in the tree without these perceptions?
The Sixth Patriarch Huineng had a verse that said, "There is no tree in Bodhi, and the mirror is not a platform, and there is nothing in the first place, where is the dust?"
What was the Sixth Patriarch Huineng talking about, the bodhi, the mirror? Or, he did not say anything, "there is nothing in the first place" is also!
What does the flowing air know?
What does the desireless Bodhi know?
What do I know about the author of this night?
It is wisdom to know what it knows, and not to know what it does not know. Or, that old man who sighed longingly on the river, also knows nothing?
Strike that, by him and by him!
Spring, a line of geese swept over my head
How can I thank you, when I walked towards you, I originally wanted to harvest a wisp of spring breeze, but you gave me the whole spring.
Coming to this world, it has been twenty-two years now, and my loved ones have always been an important role in my life, making me happy and making me sad.
At the moment I croaked, I don't know who's heart was happy, maybe it was my grandmother, maybe it was my grandfather, or maybe it was my father - he was a father for the second time. Three years ago, my brother came to this world before me, bringing infinite hope to my father's life, and now my birth I do not know if it also brought my father and brother born the same happiness and vertigo ......
Childhood, should be colorful, should be incomparably gorgeous, but because of the infirmity, my The childhood is covered with a layer of shadow, dispel these clouds, is the warm hands of grandparents. Yes, because my father and mother were busy with their careers and had no time to take care of the family, my childhood was spent in the warm embrace of my grandparents, and now, although I am far away from my hometown and have come to the prosperous city, my nostalgia for my grandparents is growing day by day. I will never forget their kindness to me, no matter where I am.
Some people may be the same to you have regeneration of grace, but because they are too much to pursue the return, the pursuit of your reward, so you are grateful to them on the big discount, and even have aversion to the heart, because what they do is not out of true love for you, but out of the several times in the payment of those who pay the return.
This is not the case with my grandparents, who really love me because I am related to them by blood. I love my grandparents as much as I love myself. They gave me the whole world, but I can't have a little return, which is what I am not willing to do. In my gray childhood memories, that big illness is undoubtedly a piece of kinship touchstone, grandparents care for me is not afraid of the fire of the real gold. That time, I was sick, and very sick. I was hospitalized, a stay is a month long, I suffered a lot, and I do not know is that in my hospitalization this time, grandparents also sleep and eat difficult, they also lost a lot of weight. In my hospitalization days grandpa seldom come to visit me, I was unhappy, I later learned that he was too busy to come to see me, because that period of time is when my father's business losses, grandpa mentioned that I was hospitalized in need of money, he just did not say a word, sitting with his head down, grandpa quickly understood the situation of my father, he did not complain about anything, that day, he rode a broken three-wheeled to the market to sell wholesale things, I was hospitalized! The first time I saw this, I was able to get a good deal of money from the company.
When I was discharged from the hospital, my grandfather rode the tricycle to pick me up, and he let me sit in the back wrapped in a quilt for fear that I would catch a cold. The moment he carried me to the tricycle, I could clearly see that his eyes had sunk deep. "Don't make your eyes withered, and collect your tears. When your eyes are dry, you will see bones, and heaven and earth will be merciless!" These lines of the poem spoke of Grandpa's hard work. He looked into my eyes as he let me onto the tricycle and said, "An, I cried every night for the month you were in the hospital, and my tears were dry!"
Yes, Grandpa cried his tears dry for me, his eyes dry up to see the bones, the world and the sky are merciless. Today, more than ten years later, recalling what Grandpa said, "I'm crying my tears dry!" I still can't help but shed tears. Because of his words, I still know clearly after more than ten years, who really loves me in the world, because of his flowers, I can always tell who is y in love with me - is the grandfather!
Grandpa loved me and grandma, and grandma loved me. And now that I'm in college, I have a lot of money to spend every month, so grandma will hide it from my dad and give me some money so that I don't worry about money like my classmates. I think, grandpa and grandma's relationship is like two trees, two trees growing on the same piece of land, those two trees are so heartfelt, they are separated by the air, and they perceive each other's existence with their hearts, I think this is exactly the highest state of love, no need to use any words, no sweet words, only two hearts, beating silently. This is enough, two hearts know each other on their side, this is enough.
I remember one time, a line of geese gently swept over from the roof of my house. In the gray memory of my childhood, the line of geese returning to the north of the mournful hooting is so let me remember distinctly, I can not forget that line of geese, which is like I can not forget my grandparents on my infinite breeding grace. I know that some of the favor can never be repaid, such as the parents of the grace of birth, such as the grandparents of the grace of upbringing.
The line of geese returning from the north, swept from the roof of my house, my young memories, from now on there is the color of the wild. What I heard was one goose-like cry after another, I looked up, only to see a few geese in a row, slowly swept through the roof of my house, they flew so slowly, like a nostalgic movie; they flew so low, as if they wanted to see the land of my hometown all over.
That line of geese is one of the few surprises in my childhood memories. Because I was too poor, I hardly ever had a happy birthday. In addition to the line of geese, is the aunt to buy me a birthday cake, it also brought me a small surprise. On the top of the cake was written "Happy Birthday Ann!" Ann, my nickname, is still called my nickname by my mom and dad today, which makes me feel close.
Later, I gradually grew up, after I grew up, I began to miss all the childhood, only you really grow up, you will understand that some things are so worth missing, like a cheap but the same can fly to the blue sky kite, like a few cents a piece of candy but the same delicious, after you grow up, you will never feel their meaning.
People are just a passer-by in time and space, come in a hurry, go in a hurry, and sometimes we haven't even looked back yet, some people just walked through our lives.
The line of geese, the line of low-flying geese, so disappeared in my gray childhood. But the love of my grandparents for me is still continuing forever, which is an unbreakable bond. My heartfelt thanks to everyone who has walked through my life, they assisted my two armpits, help me walk through the suffering of life, I will never forget.
Yes, I will never forget, the old man's love and care, the love and care of the eye dry bones, and that swept over the top of my head of the geese, so that I can not forget. If there is only one poem that can represent my heart, it can only be Wang Guozhen's <
Let me how to thank you, when I walked towards you, I originally wanted to harvest a wisp of spring wind, but you gave me the whole spring.
It turned out to be a dream
It has been a long time since I came to Tai'an, and it has been a long, long time since I parted with my father.
I did not know that I would even think of my father at this time. My father said to me when I came to Tai'an, "An, if you don't have any money, call me, I'll send you money." However, I never called my father, but at the end of every month, my father would remit money to my account, never letting me run out of money. I am grateful to my father, perhaps not only because of this, I have a deeper love for my father, these, my father does not know, perhaps he will never know.
The memory of my father, there are a few particularly clear details, still fresh in my mind, the first is my father at my request to me dictate the language words, but my father's culture is limited, when he saw that there are words that he can not read, he showed a sneer, as if to say, "the person who compiled the book can be really strange, the net out of some of the biased questions difficult to students! " I will never forget this expression, and I think it was the expression that my father made in order to maintain his dignity. The second is that once I was doing my homework, but he asked me to go out to catch cicadas with him. It was also a summer night, and I was racking my brain over a question, so I said without thinking, "You go by yourself!" By the time I realized I had said the wrong thing and chased him out of the room, my father had already left, and all I could see was his departing back, fading away, his head bowed, seemingly sad. This shot has been preserved in my memory, and every time I think of my father's love for me, and my inability to reciprocate, I am overcome with sadness, and for this reason, I repent y, for my father's love y. The third detail, which I am still suffering from, is that every night my father urged me to go to bed. If my father had not urged me, I would have played until late at night, and with my father's urging, I would have known to go to sleep on time. But because I am far away from home, I am not even able to enjoy this last happiness.
I often dream of my father's urging, but when I wake up, it is often in vain.
The clear wind and the summer night cicadas, yes, it is another summer night. I don't know since when, writing has become my habit, even in this sultry summer night, I don't forget to code. After just finishing an article, I lay down on my bed to sleep. I dreamed of my father, the man who gave me love and life, who is very, very old, because his son has grown up, and his son is his hope and a clear proof of his old age - the son's growing up is proof of the father's aging.
I dreamed of my father, the father who was already very old, in a foreign land! In my rented cottage, I dreamt of him, I dreamt that he pushed open the door of my room, and then said to me, "Ann, sleep!" Yes, it was time to go to sleep, but I couldn't sleep any more because I dreamed of my old father, standing right in the doorway, saying to me, "Ann, sleep!" It was such a simple sentence, but it was unforgettable. I looked at my old father in a daze, the corners of his forehead clearly had a few wrinkles, his hair clearly had a few strands of gray frost. I looked at him, and in my dream, tears came to my eyes.
Then I woke up and realized that the lights were not turned off, and the door was still closed, not opened.
The original is a dream ah, but why will wake up so soon, I do not understand, why even this false happiness also refused to give me some more? Why is it that even false encounters are so short-lived?
Father, I miss you, I miss you, I miss your warm arms, I miss your loving smile, I miss your gentle words, but, because in a different place, I can not see you, can not be accompanied by your side, which, after all, is not a small regret.
If time can be turned back, I will say to you, "I love you." No matter how busy, as long as you again want me to accompany you to catch cicadas, I will drop everything in my hands to accompany you, believe me, I will.
But there is no if in life, only now, so now, what can I do? I can't do anything but say, "I love you," to you after I get home. Father, wait for me.