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Three years of life and death


Childhood nostalgia is a small stamp my mother in the head at the other end ... ... then ah Homesickness is a low outside the tomb of my mother in the inside ... ...
from Yu Kuang-chung every time the song
mother passed away over the years is the third anniversary of the memorial day. Dim side window and a gloomy sky. Invading the distance, cold winds blow in the day, the memory of those who did not forget the children will fall into place in my heart, hearts began to be deeply moved by the thrill, mist the entire piece in memory of the entire piece, covered with layers of my thoughts .
memory of the seedling in that stretch of green, the wind from time to time crossed the lines in Ariel; that lush hills,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], rainy mist when the layers of hopping; that Tada lotus pond, the rain induced from the layers of ripples; piece of a long, long and lonely lane in the rain have left footprints in the ... ... remind me how many past memories.
eyes closed flat calm interest, as if to sniff out the home soil of the atmosphere, into the misty rain misty in the lonely lane in the rain, green haunted the black tiles and white walls, as well as the yard was dug by hand eye reflected a deep red fir growing on heaven.
The First of my life crying, that is, in loud and clear in this cold house. Fruits and vegetables village stream feeding me honey, rice floral dip me. I was lucky, darling, growth in the Rain in South to receive the feed Fruitful tours, rice crystal transmission of my life there, bright eyes reach of the wilderness is my first stage of life, ridge edge of a farm field grass with my company, and with me freely , there is no rhythm to wanton soaring.
Hawthorn slapstick side of a group of children playing are by the current distance. Childhood memories of the bright pure, always scattered by the water in the door, green miles, Green Raoshan ring village. Often four or five partners, behind his mother, hidden from adults, naked, barefoot, happily flew into it the clear pond, a lotus buckle in the head, several flower lotus flower in the face. Clusters of pond grass, wild flowers and flowers and birds crowing, singing gently, childhood dreams, tender heart Ying, color beaming.
mother's footsteps marching childhood, with her mother's tender hand-pulling, shoulder hoes, Dingba, wearing a cape, I am similar, marching up the mountain dew, stepping on the moon come down to earth, in the fields the geese in the pond to catch Fish ... ... one side of paddy field, a stretch of vegetable land, mapping the mother back into the air facing the loess, the fields picking wild flowers my jump, catch butterflies in the figure. Embedded precious land under a string of deep and shallow, large and small footprints, crisscross ridge, my contact with the eternal mother.
left the home of his childhood memories, but also carved endless grief. Looking back at the, chilling eyes in acid. Three years ago, her mother niches escort returned to his hometown and buried by the grandparents, since then, yin and yang barrier, Nowhere to desolate; a year ago, my mother's memorial day and return home, kneeling in her mother's grave mound, candle incense, will sucking the bitter taste of tears; over the years, will return home, worshiping the mother of the dead, tombstone epitaphs, persevering under the past as a short Songgang injury, recall into the wound.
jis misty goodbye in the biological mother and never miss.
blossoming lotus pond, the wind fragrant, lotus leaves on the slivery tears rolled down bit by bit, and that Li River Li River flowing wet soul, fill my eyes. The pond to catch fish that had children die of juvenile shrimp, and now is standing over, caught off guard in the autumn frost, wet my state of mind, freezing my memory. There is no longer For beautiful eyes gradually took All because the you disappeared and no longer have knee laughter, no warmth every night lamp in the sections, only just that the wind chill from Qinru musculoskeletal, and that bitterly The two lines of tears. Blurred dense rain clouds southern Italy, owned heavy mist from the Lan, the taste of my grief, wrapped my loneliness.
the Rain, grass faint, wind desolately, Shear return of geese, migrating thousands of miles, searching for an empty Mongolia's hometown in the misty rain, perched on the roof was short took a deep sigh. Well water dense, according to former residence, cold house, the solitary mother mend the next figure is still clear, sincere and earnest words still ringing in its ears. This is the mother sheltered under the eaves, the son of Chaos has not open to getting sensible, has gradually grown so young urchins. However, filial piety and parental child does not want to, when we just know what is rewarded, what is the honor, the dreaming of the mother, has been struggling to look into the distance and thought of as clouds dispersed.
adhering to the mother's wishes, we straighten the spine, keeping in mind the teachings of my mother, we did it with people, our blood carries the shining virtues of her mother and demeanor. Mother taught us to heart, my mother thought that raising the grace we have no reports, we could not live up to the expectations of her mother, we never forget the kindness of my mother, but my dear mother, why you want to die, and no shelter for us rain, no longer lead the way for us to pilot? Pinch your loess forever buried, apart from this yin and yang, life and death for three years, only tears of thousands of lines.
heaven yeah you do not need to cry, the heart has been too wet transparent grief, as it long, long and lonely lane in the rain.
I do not want, really do not want, do not want to enter that long, long and lonely lane in the rain. Encrusted stone path changtae quietly stretched the distance, the end of the pond lane, flat stone washboard that is still lying peacefully lying in the day had disappeared Hanlaishuwang Huanxi Daoyi biological mother.
I do not want, really do not want, do not want to enter that long, long and lonely lane in the rain. I'm afraid the tears blurred his eyes, wet your wrinkled face is still beautiful.
I do not want, really do not want, do not want to enter that long, long and lonely lane in the rain. When I was sentimentally attached to her mother to give warmth, has too much pain, through the mother's life review, with too much sentimentality.
I do not want, really do not want, do not want to enter that long, long and lonely lane in the rain. When I self-examination for the mother done anything, but it has too much remorse, insight has been unable to repay, not compensation.
remember that year, the number of Turbulence in the twilight, you perform an oil Busan, standing on a long, long and lonely lane in the rain, watched his son away in the back, waiting for us back in the face of casual learning.
Now, facing west toward the endless, I would perform a two-edged purple umbrella and pray for a long, long and lonely lane in the rain, look for the face of it disappeared, scattered the fragrance, as well as the infinite kind, warm eyes.
In a few centuries, thousands of years, I still hovering in the long, long and lonely lane in the rain, holding that the oil Busan, standing in the wind, let the dim light of my shadow and overlap separation, shortening and lengthening, hope that muddy road, two lines of reproduction of footprints ... ...