The country road takes me home

The country road takes me home

The posture is very low, best for walking barefoot.

One end is connected to the home and the other to the field, honestly guarding the land.

It winds calmly, and each crease contains a story.

The ups and downs, the sorrows and joys, the extended space, written with ties.

Like a mother's hand, rough, but warm.

Accompanied by the joy and sorrow of the crop, sunrise and sunset.

The short road but make the simple crop of people walking generation after generation, and did not come out of the end.

The hoe and the sickle testify that for the crop farmers, this is a rare path of life.

As the sun sets and the moon rises, the hares open their eyes and begin to read the plot of the countryside.

Guarding the land for which they have spent all their blood and sweat in a lifetime of bitter love, the cicadas chirp and insects chirp, brewing the year's harvest.

Come and go, wind and rain, in the rush of time

The croppers have not had time to taste the taste of life, the waist has been bent like a bow, back towards the sky.

And their crops grow strong and upright, no bowed posture.

On the winding country lanes, pigeons flashed their freedom in the fluttering.

At that moment, not far away came the call of my mother, floating high and low, the country road took me home.