Are there any poems praising the roots?

The two cottages built by my father are still there.

The low roof is full of autumn.

All my childhood friends have news,

Father's grave stands quietly in the distance.

Ask the sky,

Clouds laugh at me,

I don't know. In the middle of the hand,

There are heavy and light colors in autumn.

Light a lonely cigarette,

Watching it climb and spin quietly,

And then by the breeze,

Melt away.

It's like half my life wandering. )

Seems to be at the end of the wind,

With the scent of Stipa pilosa,

Also accompanied by childhood

Same.

The little girl who played house with me,

Who is it now?

Read the sadness between your eyebrows?

If it wasn't an accident,

Maybe it's me,

Pick up autumn leaves with you,

Help you bind and sigh.

I wish I could,

With this bald pen,

How I feel at this moment,

Also planted in your dreams.

Bend down,

Kiss again,

Kiss this hometown,

Old tree roots.

The trees in the courtyard are also sad for people's death, and autumn is not the old wind.

Back to my hometown where I have been away for many years, I played with the old trees when I was a child, and only the old roots were left. Sitting on this old tree root, I lit a cigarette and watched it rise, and scenes of the past came to my mind. I couldn't help writing down these lines. )

Stipa pilosa is a kind of grass, which often grows on the river bank and has white flowers, which can be eaten before the flowers sprout. It seems a little sweet and has a clear fragrance.

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Quietly plunge the tentacles of life into that fertile soil.

Trees are for standing, and you are for lifting.

One-to-one roots, like suckers, suck, gather and lose.

Over the years, you have tried your best at the bottom of your life, made selfless dedication, and made unremitting efforts for the hope of the green branch.

Can you say that you have no desire? Can you say that you are too ordinary and too small?