The Scent of Spring

Pushing open the door of the old house, I am in the early morning

Walking into the fields of my home

The land covered with thin snow

The crisp reverberation of every footstep

The long-deserted grass

Gently swaying. A few sparrows

shoot up into the sky like arrows

By the ridge of the field, the shepherd's purse blooms weakly

The willows by the river, dropping their branches and waving

Writing wild poetry on the river surface

The silent Qing Yan Mountain in the distance

appears thickly diaphanous, and the mist

gently sweeping over the mountainside, like sheep's wool

dipped in ink, ready to write new green

In the ravine, there is already a gurgling clear stream

Singing a happy song

The ducks quack quack, plowing through the pond's calm

The sunlight penetrates the clouds

The warmth of the fields

I can hear the breath of the fields

Oh, spring is quietly laying out

Her scent can be caught everywhere