Chapter 8 Eight

one Father leaning against a dirt wall and looking at the threshing floor people chatting.They folded their arms, bent their arms Pointing in the direction of the irrigation river. Toiled all day, now he remembers He is not a farmer. The more he knew this, the harder he worked The more he works, the more he wants to hear those people compliment him Said that he is really good at planting crops and knows how to grow crops Scientific farming.The mud on the calf dried into Blooming mildew, he stood, alternately Rub your feet back and forth.But he doesn't go, just smile at them, just let them

feel the slow flow of sunlight on his face let me his son See him like the tallest ear of wheat, Golden, full, let me understand at once i am a lucky man His children, not theirs. Father standing against an earthen wall, tiredness is a secret No one noticed, at the moment his dependence on the wall two The sunshine of the harvest season has been covered in patches mowed down, and the moon has been sent into the granary; Father put down the notched sickle, put the straw hat hang on the wall hang on the wall. Winter is the tractor waiting at the head of the village. I heard it before, said the grandmother,

Coming from a dirt road, bumping Dad, how long are we going to live here? Not long, not long, just live for a lifetime. Father drank a bowl of barley tea and put the last A little, poured into the smoking ground With a few grains of wheat chewing in his mouth, the A few bright wrinkles appear in the land three On the embankment, my father is walking 1937-1967, I was his greatest achievement Habits reproached become villages The background at dinner time, from far to near. "He'll be hungry, hungrier at night, People who drink porridge talk about digestion? " On the villager's low wooden table, he circled

The only bowl of pickles for a walk Every now and then, look up at the sky. They talked and the day passed In the night, I can no longer see the walking way, can only see The distribution of moonlight on the embankment was changed arbitrarily. Four Bamboo projection in the afternoon, in the wind Swept in a heap in a small clearing in the woods. It won't be shipped just yet, but it will be sooner or later. A child in the woods, appearing and disappearing in the air, he is waiting for his father A line of text, among the bamboos, goes around At the speed of a march, to appease

A Rebellion in the Kingdom of Poetry Now, he took out a small mirror. In the distance, you can see the bamboo forest harsh reflections Father—a word of my choosing. A word in isolation that has been all this afternoon Sunday morning, Ding Dong start knocking on this rock There is nothing else to do.every time Hit with the same force. Stones don't sing like birds, Ding Dang probably doesn't think so, he Go on, beat on. Maybe the stones will bleed, boundless smear morning into afternoon, paint afternoon into night, but Ding Dang definitely doesn't think so, He just put his head down and tapped.

It's really worrying, is it going to hit when.jingle Don't care, he's still, beating. Several times I thought I was going to stop, but Still, banging. secret blood, crazy blood From his mother's distant body, chase him along the way Ding Dang didn't notice, or didn't want to know he beat until the moon From that rock, bouncing, Beads of sweat also rise into the sky and become stars this sunday is over jingle beating the stone