The Smoke of Our Old Home Rises Curly (Angol)
I squatted down in front of my grandfather. My grandfather was using that burning red hot iron To brand marks on the herds. Every wrinkle on his face, and the white hair atop his head Clearly visible. I asked him Why is that place where smoke spirals at the foot of the mountain No longer our home? It was converted into an enemy barrack. He shook his head A gleam of wry smile flickered across his lips. He pointed to the grass way down the hill surrounded by the lakeshore below the valley Like a carpet dotted with colored flowers. It did not miss any terrain It did not stop in front of the lion's heels. The view had been extended to the door of our home-- The home we will never go back to again. Although the mountain lives without us Those hidden rough stones on the road And the cold spring water Forge my strong physical strength and I will drink the cold spring Even though my throat has long forgotten the sweet taste of jujube. I can’t return to our old home And ignite a thriving kitchen fire, I ride on horseback, Lead the bow toward the sky Attempt to shoot down The brightest star in the sky
Feltöltő | Répás Norbert |
Az idézet forrása | author |
Megjelenés ideje | 2018 |
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