Speaking of my hometown, I will think of Feng Zikai's masterpiece "people scattered, the new moon day like water", the picture is a summer balcony, wooden table lay a pot of tea, semi disabled not old a few tea, stand aside, leaving a crescent moon, hanging in the high cold rolled bamboo side. Screen is simple without losing the poetic, large areas of white, Zen emptiness, such night, read to Bai Juyi "the night I heard the young things, her tears in the dream at the red", suddenly reminded me of my deep nostalgia.
All the home is home, the home is just our ancestors wandering journey over the last station. They stopped running, some tired, sad, more with the foot of land somewhere in the margin, that makes them descendants deeply rooted, let the family life as an integral part of the long chain. Their descendants still far away from the home, but this kind of homesickness complex, is the city of agricultural origin of peasant children, life can not forget.
Away from home for several years, thought that the memory of her will in the years of migration in the fading memories, but after a considerable period of time, but like the Jiangnan Spring faint haze weather, wet, wet adhesion in the heart, heart eight hundred meters home, always fresh.
This weekend, I sat on the bus bound for home, go to my hometown, there is a slight movement of the morning breeze, bright sunshine, the dense foliage, have withered vines, trees, flowers, insects and crow, children, and the sun rising wave of smoke, and the hearts of the juvenile smile face.
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