That summer
had been saying goodbye
The yellow mud wrapped around the legs was slowly pulled away
The fishing net and fishing rod
No longer fishing in the lotus pond in the moonlight
The sickle was sharpened again and again
The rice was held heavily in the hand
Together
I am holding and the little gray snake
The boy who is watching over the abundant harvest
My heart has been ignited by the summer wind
The hot stones of my hometown
The instructions are burned into the soles of my feet
This time
The journey of time
You must be strong Go for a walk
Sanniang tremblingly
took out the rolled-up money from her arms
She scraped together enough for the last payment
The father said
There was nothing more to bring
The mother's eyes were red
She stuffed one into it and it was a bit burnt. The sweet potatoes
These soft and white clouds
in front of the house
I want to pack you into my luggage
Countless sleepless nights in a foreign land
Pillow with you to dream back to
The dewdrops on the gardenia have turned into a crystal bowl on the tip of my heart
Nostalgia
The village in July
The boy who transplanted the rice has turned around
The rice is the line of poetry left on the field
The soil is the rhyme
The endless cicadas and frogs
In the burning July
Singing in a low voice
A half-life dream
Return Are you still a teenager?
Weeds cover the door
Childhood friends scattered at the end of the world
In the familiar night
My loneliness
On the familiar path again
Fireflies Like stars in the sky
Flashing and flickering
#After 70# #Poetry##Toutiaooriginal#