The moon rises, and the sounds of nature are densely covered. The milky white moonlight fills the roofs of the villages large and small, and under the roofs is a warm sleep. My childhood, happy or sad, swayed in the moonlight.

​​

When I was a teenager, I discovered that the moon never spoke. I know that there must be a beautiful story of the earth hidden in the moon, and it has also witnessed the endless vicissitudes of the world. But it is always huge and silent, and only when night falls, it is covered with warm cares. I gradually learned that the moon does not speak, it is to leave the words to frogs, fireflies, dogs, chattering childhoods and teenagers full of worries, and dreaming...

​​

The moon is shining brightly, but the weather forecast says "it will rain tomorrow". Our parents took us to the cornfield to harvest wheat overnight. The wheat under the moonlight held the wheat awns together and accepted the review of the moonlight. I swung my scythe in the air, like starlight streaking across the ground. Occasionally, the disturbed little sparrow flew up from the ground with a "whoosh" sound and disappeared without a trace. Father didn't speak, but he would grind his sickle on the stone in the field halfway. It was his favorite sickle, and it had been used and sharpened and sharpened and used in his hands for years. This is the sickle specially used by my father, and it is also the last sickle used by my father before his death. In my memory, it seems like that night, when my father finished grinding his last moonlight, he disappeared so suddenly.

​​

Mother too. My mother has always lacked this and that in her life, but she has never lacked the moonlight. In front of the house and behind the house, in the fields and fields, all are full of beautiful moon. As long as there is no lack of moonlight, the mother feels that the world is intact, the life is stable, and the heart is at ease. On the threshing field on summer nights, beneath the pyramids of straw, hide our mysterious childhoods—fairy tales we remember all our lives. In the youthful years in the future, we hid the secrets of our childhood sweethearts. And all this, only the moon knows, the tight-lipped moon knows.

​​

Now it seems that the moon in the city is not the moon at that time. The moon in the city is always gray, dirty, even a little cloudy, and it feels old. Unlike the moon in my hometown, it is clear and translucent. Although it is a little lonely, it can leave some blanks in our lives, and let the sound of frogs, dogs and fireflies fill it up, and let the shadows of mountains and trees fill it up. Let us go inside to express the poetry of life. For example, the people and things we have met under the moonlight are always engraved in our lifetime memories. Just like when we used the moonlight to pick up ears of wheat and grains, all that was picked up was poetry. In winter, too, we walk at night by moonlight, stepping on the frost on the ground, and we see the boundless sky in our field of vision—the sky that our ancestors looked up to countless times.

​​

My sister picked up a load of water from the well, and also picked back two moons. It looks so watery and deep in the water. And the moon in the lake is even deeper, as if it is as deep as five thousand years, and it is filled with the fish and water of the people around the lake from generation to generation. Under the moonlight, father and brother propped up their own boats and rowed to the middle of the lake to catch fish. And every fish jumping under the moonlight is a poem.

​​

It is the moon from my hometown, the silent moon, that tells us about the original poetry of the sky. It is also the ancient moon that evokes the shock and reminder of "a moment in the sky, a thousand years in the world". With it, we have a psychic code associated with eternity and infinity.

​​

Time flies, the fallen leaves return to the branches in spring, gather and disperse, disperse and gather, and the moon is always the moon, rising in our hearts. It must be the eyes of God from a distant place, it tells a kind of affection between heaven and earth. As long as we often have its reminders and baptisms, we will have the eyes and minds to see the world from the sky. As long as we do not forget to often look up at the night sky and exchange glances with the moon; as long as we face the earth and bow our heads humbly, we can reap the poetry of life. in my reading room

The moon rises, and the sounds of nature are densely covered. The milky white moonlight fills the roofs of the villages large and small, and under the roofs is a warm sleep. My childhood, happy or sad, swayed in the moonlight.

​​

When I was a teenager, I discovered that the moon never spoke. I know that there must be a beautiful story of the earth hidden in the moon, and it has also witnessed the endless vicissitudes of the world. But it is always huge and silent, and only when night falls, it is covered with warm cares. I gradually learned that the moon does not speak, it is to leave the words to frogs, fireflies, dogs, chattering childhoods and teenagers full of worries, and dreaming...

​​

The moon is shining brightly, but the weather forecast says "it will rain tomorrow". Our parents took us to the cornfield to harvest wheat overnight. The wheat under the moonlight held the wheat awns together and accepted the review of the moonlight. I swung my scythe in the air, like starlight streaking across the ground. Occasionally, the disturbed little sparrow flew up from the ground with a "whoosh" sound and disappeared without a trace. Father didn't speak, but he would grind his sickle on the stone in the field halfway. It was his favorite sickle, and it had been used and sharpened and sharpened and used in his hands for years. This is the sickle specially used by my father, and it is also the last sickle used by my father before his death. In my memory, it seems like that night, when my father finished grinding his last moonlight, he disappeared so suddenly.

​​

Mother too. My mother has always lacked this and that in her life, but she has never lacked the moonlight. In front of the house and behind the house, in the fields and fields, all are full of beautiful moon. As long as there is no lack of moonlight, the mother feels that the world is intact, the life is stable, and the heart is at ease. On the threshing field on summer nights, beneath the pyramids of straw, hide our mysterious childhoods—fairy tales we remember all our lives. In the youthful years in the future, we hid the secrets of our childhood sweethearts. And all this, only the moon knows, the tight-lipped moon knows.

​​

Now it seems that the moon in the city is not the moon at that time. The moon in the city is always gray, dirty, even a little cloudy, and it feels old. Unlike the moon in my hometown, it is clear and translucent. Although it is a little lonely, it can leave some blanks in our lives, and let the sound of frogs, dogs and fireflies fill it up, and let the shadows of mountains and trees fill it up. Let us go inside to express the poetry of life. For example, the people and things we have met under the moonlight are always engraved in our lifetime memories. Just like when we used the moonlight to pick up ears of wheat and grains, all that was picked up was poetry. In winter, too, we walk at night by moonlight, stepping on the frost on the ground, and we see the boundless sky in our field of vision—the sky that our ancestors looked up to countless times.

​​

My sister picked up a load of water from the well, and also picked back two moons. It looks so watery and deep in the water. And the moon in the lake is even deeper, as if it is as deep as five thousand years, and it is filled with the fish and water of the people around the lake from generation to generation. Under the moonlight, father and brother propped up their own boats and rowed to the middle of the lake to catch fish. And every fish jumping under the moonlight is a poem.

​​

It is the moon from my hometown, the silent moon, that tells us about the original poetry of the sky. It is also the ancient moon that evokes the shock and reminder of "a moment in the sky, a thousand years in the world". With it, we have a psychic code associated with eternity and infinity.

​​

Time flies, the fallen leaves return to the branches in spring, gather and disperse, disperse and gather, and the moon is always the moon, rising in our hearts. It must be the eyes of God from a distant place, it tells a kind of affection between heaven and earth. As long as we often have its reminders and baptisms, we will have the eyes and minds to see the world from the sky. As long as we do not forget to often look up at the night sky and exchange glances with the moon; as long as we face the earth and bow our heads humbly, we can reap the poetry of life. in my reading room