Clear memory domain

I don’t remember the last time I went to the bamboo bridge. Only find my heart suddenly disarrayed when looking back at the home bamboo bridge nestled in a tourist area when people begin to remember the past. There was a bit of pity when he saw the coconut shell, the cowhide chair, and the bamboo bridge lying precariously in a noisy space. At that time, I would like to go back to my hometown and listen to the wind hissing through the doors, hear the birds chirping along the garden side, hear the bees gourd …

Photo: Internet Sometimes in my life, I want to forget the tiredness so that the towels can be returned to the peaceful little hamlets, I want to forget about the wide streets to settle myself with the peace of the old season. We went back to the small riverside hamlet, the monkey bridge lying on the river was gone, the water wharf, the boat had left with fragments of time. Sitting and watching the water dissipate, we seem to vanish with a rustling monsoon. The rows of old eucalypts have been waiting for many times to change leaves, how many times to change the land, to move the rain and sun, and the little village keeps it for us with so many overlapping mess. The day we left the hometown, passed the small bamboo bridge in front of the house, waking up with open horizons, sending our hearts back by the waterfront along the river, sending my first love back in a bitter look. I flow into the city with short, evenly long days. To one day find ourselves in abundance in the street, we dream about the simple lifestyle of our homeland. Wake me up every morning with the sound of chickens crowing, with a bright ray of sunlight that pierces the canopy of leaves, and sweet sales of goods in the morning. We walked out into the garden, took a deep breath of the fresh village air, and heard the flowers and leaves whisper blooming. Feel every beat of time, ignoring the old old dogma. Hold your hand to catch the clear morning sun – a peaceful flower blooms under your hand … I wander the familiar village path, where a coconut shadow always appears to lean on. Sitting under the shade of the hometown coconuts, from someone’s home warm, passionate lullabies, these songs follow me throughout my life. The figure of a woman who is industrious, enduring pain and suffering in the countryside is never mixed in up and down road dust. The proud voice of the country pours into the day of diligence so that we love the voice of the motherland forever. We went back and weeped in the night with doubts going through each other. The sound of frogs looking for each other, the clattering of insects, the sound of parents sitting back and forth in the cramped, quiet dinner pot. I used to be excited about the street, tired of the poor days in the countryside. Walk long distances on the feet of youth, across high hills. Let one day see sadness plunge, hesitate to pass each other as a part of life. The countryside brightly lit, we illuminate ourselves in the pond water. Each trace of time chasing after days, the nostalgia of flapping its wings in the iron, remember looking forward to. If you go far, you can be homesick, and you can see simple but heartbreaking images. Now back to look at the homeland, there are things that have forever remained in memory that cannot be changed. Small bamboo bridges, thatched roofs, rows of rows, the noises of noon gradually retreated into the past. I forever embrace the troubled youth, the alum is still sticking to the heels every day, so that every step we take is heavy carrying a domain … In the afternoon, sit back with the innocent river, the old images are blurred into our hearts with long, smoking streaks. On the country river wharf, a boat just let go of the anchor … /.