There is a kind of love in the world that gives silently and never asks for anything in return. There is a feeling in the world that if you want a drop of water, it will give you the whole ocean. There is a look in the world, as long as you are happy, she will feel at ease. This love, this feeling, this eyes, is a trickle, is the sun, is the fragrance of May blossoms. She always gives no regrets, gives willingly, and loves and is happy. This is you, my great mother.
Time is in a hurry, time wasted the years of your youth. The gray temples tell me that you are getting old, even stumbling, and your waist is no longer as tall and straight as it used to be. Suddenly found that you and I have been drifting away. It is time that ruthlessly robs the light from your eyes.
Over the years, you are in front of me, the Buddha in my heart and forever. The love you give is the fragrance of the flowers, the Zen meaning of Bodhi, and the kindness I will repay with my whole life.
When I was a child, I was a paper kite in your hand. When I fly to the white clouds, your eyes follow the blue sky. The rows of crooked little feet are always filled with your big footprints, giving birth to blossoming, dusty little lotus flowers.
When I grow up, I will be a butterfly outside your window. Find the direction of the fragrance of flowers, you can always find my nymphomaniac. If you don't say, don't scream, don't disturb, just look at me quietly, you will always smile with relief. Your smile is the most beautiful flower I have ever seen in my life.
Whenever the sun sets, it lengthens my lonely shadow. It is you, dragging a long tone, from the east end of the village to the west end of the village, calling me back with a sound of running far away and playing crazy.
Ear, a word of exhortation, call again and again, your love is endless. It's not that I want to, nor do I want to, you just like that, growing old in waiting and waiting. That full head of white hair, is the years engraved in your life marks, is we can not hold, also unable to change, fleeting years left to your vicissitudes.
I sat on the futon in front of the warm stove. Look at you every earthly fireworks, are imbued with the smell of mixed old. It is wordless love, an earnest expectation for us, and a foreshadowing for my happiness in life.
Never, said love, also did not express love. Your eyes are as close as water. Like a leaf boat, leisurely, carrying me to every intersection of life. In the wind, rain, frost, snow. I have never felt cold and hot. Those are the umbrellas that you always hold for me at the same temperature and refuse to put away even if you are tired.
I will never forget every song you played for me in the firewood, rice, oil and salt. Never forget, in front of the stove, you in my heart, planted every hope and good thoughts.
Your busy figure in front of the stove is a scenery that I haven't seen enough in my life. Your earnest call and exhortation is a ballad that I have not heard enough. On the roof, the curling smoke, floating and floating, fell on the eaves, on the trees, on every corner of the courtyard. That leisurely fragrance is not only happiness, but also you, mother's smell, mother's taste.
Walking in the streets of May, roses crawl all over the streets, much like your wordless love. Sweet smell, light and elegant, not hot, not strong. Take a shallow breath, the air is full of rose fragrance, more like your faint fireworks smell. It's so warm, and it shows the warmth of life.
In the depths of the smoke, love flows slowly over time, thinking of your every morning bell and twilight drum, in your every exhortation and entrustment, in the sigh and waiting when you miss me.
Thank God for his kindness to me. Be grateful for this life. I can have a fight with your mother and daughter. No matter spring or summer, no matter autumn or winter, I can grow slowly according to your temperature and never admit defeat. Thank you, always let me indulge, at your side Enron, and happiness. If you want to read more wonderful articles, please follow the reading and appreciation of American articles.
How many years you have loved me, how many years I have loved you. Already, according to the blood you give, it has grown into what you like. However, there is always a kind of regret that can not be perfected. That is, no matter how non-stop we are, we will never be able to catch up with you. Who can tell me, I should, how to retain, can, do not let you hobble that day.
Time flies, maternal love is deep. Looking at your white hair, listening to you begin to recall your childhood time, unexpectedly is speechless choking. Mother, dear mother, your children have grown up, but you have lost your beauty.
How I wish time could slow down, a little slower. Let you stay at this moment, just the right appearance. If I can, advance 20 years of time, then I would like to use my advance of 20 years, to repay you, I can not repay the kindness forever.
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