The persimmons have thinned, no one often stays,

In the countryside, there are no more young men to play.
Ask where the youth have gone today?
Backbreaking work away from home, the trees are already yellow in the city.
If time could rewind 30 years, not a single persimmon would turn yellow.
The little Fang from back then has become a middle-aged woman,
Childhood playmates—where are they now?
Dressed in yellow robes, delivering takeout.
Wealthy rural areas are pure land,
Poor rural areas are just dirt.
The countryside is paradise in the eyes of the rich,
A desolate place in the eyes of the poor.
It’s the distant land in poets’ writings,
A hometown that wandering souls dream of returning to.
Later, I understood:
Each generation has its own prison,
The prison of our parents is called homeland,
And our prison is a foreign land!
One cannot escape, one cannot return.
The land of hometown traps him,
The life of the distant place locks me in.
We call it choice, but really we are prisoners.
My second uncle said it well:
Even if there are countless lights in a foreign land,
They cannot compare to the moon over my hometown.
No matter how many banquets abroad,
They are not as good as a bowl of porridge from my mother. [Good luck][Good luck][Good luck][Good luck]