Mai Xiang rubbed into memory

Walking into the fields, the hustle and bustle of the city was submerged in the harvest ridges by the ears of wheat in the fields. The raised wheat needles, like the red eyes of a hammer and sickle, showed off another victory battle to the heat waves.

The scent of wheat rubbed into the memory, but the smell of sweat cannot be erased.

When the seeds from the rocking bucket dig into the soil, the parents with their faces full of time and knife marks, grinning, they seem to have buried the stars and the sea in their dreams, simplicity is full of hope, and primitiveness is full of strength. Looking forward to the future, I fell drunk in my heart.

But this sea of ​​stars buried in their parents’ dreams heralded their busy time journey. Facing Qiming to fertilize, weeding in the cold wind, and irrigating with stars and moons…Day after day in pale days , year after year in simple happiness .

When the generation growing in the city couldn’t distinguish between wheat seedlings and leeks, the mountain village fathers used their rickety bodies to turn loess into flour, and drove the wheels of the country to fill a granary in the flying wheat chaff.

The crooked ears of wheat are their bent waists, like the backs of mountains. The moments when they solidify into the countryside, they write eternal history.

They live in the world where money is fragrant, born in the mountain breeze and living in the world, like a river under a rock, clear and loud, transparent and sweet.

The straight straws, like their legs standing in the field regardless of gains and losses, stand as the faith that neighbors help each other without hesitation, pure and fast. They are idiots in the eyes of everyone, but their bones are thorough and honorable. Although they are not in keeping with the times, they are clean and swaying.

In a world of food crisis, China’s confidence comes from the golden color of the mountains and plains, and even more from the tens of thousands of fields standing on the backbone of the mountains. The condensed brow is engraved with perseverance, and the heavy hope of the descendants of China is written on the weathered cheeks.

The wind blows the waves of wheat, melodiously in the mountains and rivers of thousands of miles, and echoes in the rivers of thousands of miles. The seeds that are about to return to the warehouse, generation after generation, thrive in the field of hope, are the soul of China and the food of the nation.