Every grain of wheat is a relative, and every handful of soil can pinch out the birdsong of the hometown. To send a homeland to those who have not had time to return to their hometown is to send it to an old hometown.
The frost-stained sickle is held in his hand, and the spring is harvested before the fruit hits the ground. The narrative that opens in the soil, the tears are also new, and the dripping exhortations become new seeds, waiting to sprout in the coming year.
Very light wind and snow, falling in a foreign country to see the wind and green, like a long-lost dialect. Tea and wine, avoid the wind, frost, rain and snow, lean out of the walls of the years, quietly enter the mountains, and invite the memories back to the table.
A person carrying water carries the heavy moonlight and the livelihood of his family to and from the past. People are in a foreign country, tomorrow is another day, open the curtains and you can see the pear blossoms in the backyard.
A man who has not returned for a long time, the opponent is an empty wine bottle. After drinking homesickness, you can still drink loneliness, until you drink the joy and sorrow of autumn and winter, and bury yourself in a glass of snow.
Sending a homeland to those who have not had time to return to their hometown is to send a lifetime of longing for their relatives in a foreign land. The years when the hair is gray can be carved on the monument in this sentence and engraved with an inscription as golden as wheat.