In the south of the Yangtze River where chickadees wake up, a touch of rain smoke is everywhere, the clearness of cuckoo, the grace of oriole, the lingering of bamboo pheasant. The hunter who watched the night has returned, the willow flute is quivering in the morning breeze, the child is going out to herd in sleep, and the dewdrops are ringing.

The old men who carry the plows ring the bells of the buffaloes, and greet the village girls carrying water with loud shouts. I sing a little tune all the way to the noisy Jiangnan, which is awakened by tits. My heart is peacefully attached to a touch of rain smoke, and I am attached to it.

The misty Jiangnan hometown woke up from a dream. Bamboo leaves trembled with the freshness of the morning breeze as they walked up the ancient stone steps. The dilapidated fairy tale stone courtyards were no longer visible. The new houses were raising their cornices.

The bitterness of the roots no longer stoops to pick up the fallen elm money. The folks prepare a cup of freshly picked camellia for me. My heart is soaked in the sweetness of love in the south of the Yangtze River. I love the wild roses at the foot of the cliff at the beginning of the rain.

The clusters of wild and gorgeous stamens of the vomit made me feel sweet and half sad. Looking at the nephews rolling on the back of the cow like the nephews rolling on the grass, the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River blurred my contemplative eyes. These sensible children passed by.

They had already taken on the hardships of their fathers, their childish eyes were shining with the desire for knowledge. However, on the grassy slope, under the crude oil lamps, they were competing and swearing, and only the pastime of "catching children" was left. In the noisy Jiangnan, a touch of

The half-covered bluestone of the stream in the mist of rain silences my first love, the duckweed. In the passionate memory, I quietly drive the shy narcissus barefoot. I wash in the stream, sighing, washing the intimacy of my childhood. Today's silent path

Deep, the orchid flowers float silently in March, and the path is lively. Wild pomegranates light up the flaming summer path, which carries me as I grow up. The tree shades cover me, and how many hazy chickadees wake up in the south of the Yangtze River. A touch of rain smoke makes the chickadees noisy.

When I wake up in the south of the Yangtze River, a mist of rain teases me. The picturesque Jiangnan sweet-scented osmanthus wine is newly brewed with a realistic myth. The buckwheat nectar dyes my long-hidden childlike innocence. My heart is given to the tits on the cliff. A piece of joy decorates my late arrival.

In the spring, tits come to the south of the Yangtze River, a wisp of rain smoke