Hawthorn
Column: Poetry Add Time: December 6, 2010 9:03:15 Source: admin Click: 78
My name is Hawthorn, I come from the big mountain. Winter tree,
My appearance is very simple, or you can say it's rustic,
Because the environment for growth is too quiet and too closed, like pickled vegetables and superheroes - pickles and eagles,
Therefore,
Everything about me is unremarkable.
I have no sharp edges, nor anything strange.
When others step on me,
Either I feel nothing,
Or I become a mess of mud.
In the face of cunning, strength, and scheming,
I have no ability to resist.
So,
I fear being brought into competition.
Since the big mountain has nurtured me,
Please don't push me into the city.
I grew up in tranquility,
Let me perish in peace.
In the hustle and bustle of the city,
The dazzling colors leave me lost.
Life in the city is too hard.
Mother, Brother Small Eyes, Selected Literature Network for Essays and Novels, I want to go back to the big mountain.
Father, teach me how to plow and farm.
God, why could my ancestors live that way,
But I cannot return to the past?