Both sides of the river.

The east bank is the second uncle's house, and the west bank is the cousin's house.

I fish and catch crabs in the river, scooping up a simple life.

Sow rice in the south and mint in the north. The mother feeds hope in the silkworm house.

The willows cover the sun and the moon, and the reeds shake the autumn wind.

I waded across the edge of the water plants with four seasons in my arms.

Plant seedlings in May, watch chrysanthemums in October, and watch the sky in December. The father stood on the ridge, the cigarette rod was burning and thinking.

People plant their bodies in emerald fields.

The story of the farmhouse, the legend of the waterside, is filled with a whole basket.