A time of innocence

The countryside is bustling every evening, partly thanks to the children. No matter what one thinks, worries, hurries to prepare a meal after a busy day, eyes in veils only know that ahead are fields of freshly harvested wheat, straw stretched across, piles of red dirt for ploughing and threshing; beside empty lands are places to shovel cans and trees become hideouts for ten-year games. . At the end of ten years, dragons on clouds again crows. They ran around with their hair sticking to sweat and clothes covered in dust from the streets. Their voices rang out laughing, screaming, shouting at each other just to get it right or wrong in an exciting game. Seeing children's selfless enthusiasm, adults often see young hearts too.

                I remember every evening when the fields of wheat swirled and flowed, I longed for the rustic calmness of the countryside. Longing for the golden colour of the ripe harvest brought me to maturity; longing for the children who were born on that bright day with their daffodils each year. Their laughter and cries resounded all over the field, dissipating life's weariness and worries. The innocent children held tightly in their hands the daffodil rope, gazing up at the sky with joy. For adults, the daffodil might have been a mere childish game, but for them it was then a symbol of freedom, the desire to rise in life Despite hardships, despite lack of education, these young people remained unselfish, cheerful, present-hearted children. Poetry still resonated across the face, dissolving the fatigue and anxiety of life. They never knew what poetry meant, because they had smiled like mothers in the villages. But there is always something beautiful about their souls: