That plum tree, that bamboo horse
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That plum tree, that bamboo horse – your love twenty years ago was truly enviable. You grew up together, hand in hand. That green plum tree, that fast-running bamboo horse – they were witnesses to the innocent days of your youth. In your childhood games, you were the father and she was the mother; those bricks and leaves formed a “home” for you. You would hold onto that broken stuffed toy as you talked, and she remembered everything you said, keeping it in memory for a lifetime. Later, arranged marriages tried to separate you, but your parents’ wishes became the bond that brought you together. Finally, you had a real home. But when you held a real child in your arms, you stopped talking to each other, remaining silent. Snow covered the world of your emotions. She remembered everything you said, keeping it in memory for life. She worked hard for you in this world, sacrificing the beauty of her youth; she endured the trials of time and became an ordinary housewife, all because of those words you said. Those words became her reason for living. In the midst of all the distractions, you became intoxicated, not understanding the importance of sticking together through thick and thin – a theme that should have governed your twenty years of relationship. Have you forgotten? Deep in your memories, there’s still that plum tree, that fast horse, and those words that echoed in her heart
This article is quite well-written; it moved me after reading it. As I get older, sometimes I play \"Race Car Racing\" like a child to relax. In Telecom Zone 2, the one who \"eats green plums and rides a bamboo horse\" is me; I can only think about those green plums within the game. . . .
It’s really nice; I feel touched
Green Jade Tune by Huang Gongshao of the Song Dynasty: Year after year, on the festival days, I put down my sewing needle – how can I bear to see the swallows flying side by side? Today, spring is already half-way through in the riverside city; I remain here, deep in the rugged mountains, by a desolate stream bridge. Who will sew a new shirt when the old one is torn? Every dot is marked with traces of tears. At sunset, I dismount by the bank of fragrant grass; the flowers have no one to wear them, there’s no one to offer wine, and no one to care if I get drunk.