Year , or can remember when a child Red Kapok morning , my father took us, get on the car to leave home . For small to understand the meaning of tears grandmother face , not to know his home after leaving for a long time will become home to the one you been thinking where they can not go back . Many of the scenes from the day I can not remember clearly , but that hint of red dye on it easily into my body , my blood , surging forward with my heart - in the car when turning out of the village , My back , end of the village was in full bloom Kapok bright red and flew into my eyes the first time in my life is so bright that it Kapok beauty ! Perhaps such a casual look back , home of the Kapok in the hearts of my branded an Indian , became my sustenance , let me drift for many years later , still unable to erase the home of the Red ... ...
Today, it is a sunny spring , it is played aspect , the fiery red one , which is those many trees, branches red, reported spring ! This time , I delighted in the Yi Keke childhood on the kapok tree , cut some bamboo , climbing trees, enjoying the sweet honey Kapok . It is so sweet and pure , like a home clear sky , no trace of the defects , a trace of vanity , let me in the gloom , a loss of more than a sustenance and smile ; its fragrance is so true, like home murmur Stream , control his earth-shaking , end of time , bit by bit moist earth mother, folks , let me in hardship , disappointment, learned a strong and persistent . Is this , my childhood on the run in the Yi Keke of the kapok tree , dragging a bag , picking up the fallen of the Kapok . The dried flowers , and replaced the money , and replaced with stationery, copybook , those many glass ball , in exchange for a mother comforting smile . I read a mother 's smile, not because of money , but I have tall kapok trees grow taller grow up ... ...
But you may not know , home of those trees, flowering when less than a tiny , wooden satisfied the upright in the fields , not a good appearance , with no real mention the name of the respectable names of wood , The branches are vigorous enough how powerful is not the roaring sky . But her presence in her unique way of land belonging to her , I like her simple emotions, is often remembered because of her, just as my Yili -old mother in the village , Wang Jin autumn and hope children go , just for a Spring bloom for a time , in order to be able to see my first time back , she then reasons , of course, only to be spring without green leaves set off , the red flower petals, accompanied by his mother humming the song childhood Sleep into my dreams ... ...
Those Kapok Yeah, even more because no one without Fang . They bloom in the field on a warm , clear sky , the red one in the spring . Even wither , nor will the name of flower names such as those colorful grass , a piece of the wind everywhere and will not be the protagonist of her is her sister mourner , her blossoming, and a blossoming in the fall , fertile First step of land outside the red mountain trail leading to ... ... is such a path , one by one from the kapok tree , then jump over a mountain valley , the number of wandering , in this February , when opened Kapok Back , which saw home is no longer among the little thatched cottages between the setting sun with delicate ethereal smoke , Each and kapok trees can tell you that there is no longer poor , as the days have been such as kapok , red Fiery red , like the side flying the flag in the village . You also can not imagine , in the trunk so resolute , even in full bloom out of shocking people blooming flower, blooming in the heavens and the earth with wanton , that is how the noble sentiments , love of the plot to spring him in the hills are covered with The release of his tenderness , beauty and this one is his land ... ...
Once when , the cycle of spring and autumn , the kapok tree from red to green white , still faithful and waiting for the kerosene lamp , under each of the old mother's slightest worried about , you took the lonely mountain side of the watch Sunset , the warmth of each face to the traveler tired Chigui ; the number of storms , how many akishimo , your flesh and blood into the warm , burning the ancestors of several full cycles of the world ; many of the night, endless love , then , in your Flowers before the leaves in your tears wet the next how much they love , but always we can not do , like amorous birds , a kiss , surprise , no trace on the fly , no place to look for , you sigh and left disconsolate in the flower , The night of white head ... ... in love, you become a permanent, success ... ... a night of nostalgia