Dero Goi forum

mrenueda · Posted: Wed 23:26, 23 Mar 2011 Post subject: Is tired of the butterfly leaves

Sunset old, west gradually tight. Yela, the autumn leaves come on the ride. Autumn came, and people with thin autumn, with autumn sad. the golden leaves

but not sadness, it knows how to comfort themselves in the autumn wind, it is to know your new wake up sleeping. Have the benefits of deciduous leaves, you can no longer be caught in the entanglements of love; leaves have beautiful leaves, it is tired of the butterfly.

I even feel that the leaves are gently falling to cry. At that moment, my heart is slightly shocked, as if the fate of many leaves one after another.

I saw the home, saw the tree in front of the endless trees home, saw the smoke and shaking because the wanderer's return. To move far away and the pace, for the wings into the sky, the smoke will always be constantly pulling the rope. As the junction tree, which many of the road pointing Zhigan, but only a starting point, end point and only one person each to leave the village, all took a green leaf, leaving behind a root.

home I saw the cliff, the rock in the cliff, and flowers bloom along with racing, watching the goats on the cliff, and drift racing with the clouds I saw

My roof, laden with icicles in winter, summer, full of birds Xu, a bunch of red pepper is often seen as poor day of the fire. Keeper whipped the sparrows under the eaves, always so good and harmonious home together with the Zhuang Huren. Always haunted the hearts of tree on the road, this is the roof.

I saw the mother. To keep us in the winter cold, she picked up a dead tree's branches steadily, as if the days are broken one by one embellishment, and then handed our hands warm. The higher the mother's Chaiduo, mother missing more short. I watched my mother a pair of withered breasts, like two incomplete is not the whole of the begging bowl, but for our discussion to the feast of life. The end of the mother in the kitchen kang dim red light the flame, has become the only thing we can rely on that night, a small shoulder, the only way to hold a warm hand.

returning to their roots [link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I old? We spent a lot of time to fight for wealth, there is little time to enjoy; we have more and more houses, but fewer and fewer living in the home; to the moon and then come back, but found that the downstairs neighbors are difficulties; conquered the world, on his own inner world will know nothing.

people travel, what makes you sound anonymity [link widoczny dla zalogowanych], what the wind will blow you to the foreign land; fall is the way to shake off the leaves one after another, the thoughts of people have put up branches.

is the back, to see that the tree gave birth to me, so I was letting my grow green and yellow as the trees mature. There are sleeping in the leaves in the mother.

mother, I hurried footsteps is your thick pins.

mother, carrying a tattered baggage I have to come back and find I have to return to heaven.

spread a layer of leaves on the way home, I stepped on the carpet to see the warm mother. Mother like that leaves, branches from the brilliant fall slowly. But she never woke up.

the world, who can not keep house, to take away people's not the road. Years can not be stretched out a hand for you to seize the past cloud. If everything can come back again picking up, I'm going to pick up your smile, the pace of wind, with your love composition, be twisted by your kindness, I have to light it, put my heart [link widoczny dla zalogowanych], my life did not forget his way home.

cold weather, falling leaves of the tree, the tree close to me. I seem to hear them in slowly solidified.

cold weather, their rows of standing, guarding the secrets of the hearts of monitoring waves of pain up, but the leaves fall and cover up everything.

mother went. Without relying on the mind, all of a sudden have a feeling that air leakage around. But the wind has been blowing, blowing the dust around the home a clean, my little hometown is being wrapped in the fall.

mother's grave and there is a tree, it is the poem I wrote to the mother. Every fall, the leaves have to have down, the mother's grave mound covered tightly, moaning slightly in the wind the leaves, looked far away, like a group of tired of the butterfly, quietly put on the beauty of their lives moment: a flush, an oath, or simply a sigh.