我的村庄土壤贫瘠，可从不缺勃发的生命。春风又绿的时候，哪怕是冬天里光秃

My village poor soil, can never missing overflowing with life. Spring Green when, even if it is winter bare ridge, even if it is by eating sheep meadow trained was flat, even get to the bottom of the river bed, even if it is Zhi Ke staggered trees, even hay overgrown wasteland ...... the rain like a special applicator brush green paint, shabu shabu two or three down, brush go, where to turn green. Those foxtail hurriedly covered wasteland roadside villages, those white top fruit in the meadow full of flowers, cyan, light green mountain river rocks on those covered with moss. Like the wind take advantage of the event in printmaking artist, crafted out of purple eggplant in this green, the orange-yellow pear, peach pink, red chili, as well as those who gave birth to baby lying on the ground of Guagua, and a stretch of standing corn back to a baby ...... May, the weather burning outside the village of Huang Pao children, black children Pao, purple Pao children to mature together, the children village women to pull large leaves, folded into a bucket Gok, the pick, filled, walking, eating, so that passers straight Biao saliva. Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, moon summer night, rubble pile cricket, Grasshopper will tentacles stuck outside the cave, blowing loud whistle to attract companions to courtship song. Sough of the night wind and cold village, drinking cold blow, blow cold crops, blowing cold woods, flapping in the wind to go the distance.

My village has poor soil and can never be short of burgundy life. When the spring breeze is green, even if it is the bare mountain beams in winter, even if it is the meadows that are chewed by cattle and sheep, even if it is the riverbed of the falling stones, even if it is the jagged trees, even if it is the dead grassy wasteland ... The rain is like a brush specially painted with green paint, and you'll be green two or three, wherever you're brushed. The dogtails crawled quickly through the village's roadside wasteland, the white-top fruit spouts were filled with flowers on the meadow, and the pale green stones of the mountain bed were covered with moss. The wind is like a painter with a rich and colorful version of the painter, in this green carved out purple eggplant, yellow-orange pears, pink peaches, red hot, as well as those lying on the ground on the birth of a melon, as well as a standing back of the bag valley ... ... From One to May, the weather burns, the village outside the yellow, black, purple children together matured, the child village woman pulled the wide leaves, folded into a fight, picked, loaded, walking, eating, let passers-by mouth." Du, Doodle, Doodle, Doodle, Doodle, Moon's summer night, the rubble in the pile of crickets, the dragonfly will touch out of the hole, blow out the bright whistle, attract companions, to sing courtship. The truffling night wind cooled the village, the people and animals, the crops, the trees, and the hula-hooped run away.

The soil in my village is poor, but there is no lack of flourishing life. When the spring wind is green, even the bare mountain beams in winter, even the meadows that have been gnawed and spread by cattle and sheep, even the river bed that has fallen into water and rocks, even the trees with branches and branches interlaced, even the wasteland with withered grass Rain is like a special brush for applying green paint, Shua Shua Shua, two or three times, where the brush goes, it turns green. The Dogtail grass quickly climbed all over the village's roadside wasteland, the white top fruit was full of flowers on the meadow, and the light green and green stones on the mountain stream bed were covered with moss. The wind is like a printmaker who is good at using thick ink to carve out purple eggplant, yellow orange pear, pink peach, red hot pepper, melon and melon that are born on the ground, and Baogu that is standing on the back of the baby in this green In May, the weather will burn, and the yellow, black and purple trees outside the village will grow up together. The children's village women pull the broad leaves, fold them into Dendrobium, pick and install them, walk and eat them, making passers-by saliva. Dudu, Dudu, Dudu, Dudu, on the summer night of the moon, the cricket and cudgel in the rubble will protrude the tentacles out of the cave, blow out the loud whistle, attract the companions and courtship with songs. The rustling night wind has cooled the village, the people and the animals, the crops, the trees and the distance.