归乡我怀念那些春来耕种秋来收获的日子,那些一寸一厘像芝麻开花一样成长起来的幸福时光。这是乡村的三月,草木萌发的气息胜过一切音乐。旋律都在草尖上顶着、嫩叶上挂着、柳笛里藏着。耕牛的脚步和呼吸,在手心里牵着,那些新鲜的湿润的泥土,将一缕缕美好的阳光接住,将一粒粒饱满的种子接住,在雨水里一粒粒催生。村庄在春耕春播中欣欣向荣。 Going home I miss the days when the spring came to cultivate the autumn harvest, and those happy days grew an inch in size like the blossom of sesame seeds. This is the countryside in March, the breath of vegetation than all the music. The melodies are all on the tip of the grass, hanging on the young leaves, hidden in willow flute. Cattle footsteps and breathing, holding in the palm of your hand, those fresh moist soil, will catch a plume of sunshine, a grain of seeds will catch, birth in the rain a grain. The village is thriving in spring plowing.