Mud is a prose work by Mr. Peng Guoliang, editor-in-chief of the magazine. Through the description of mud, the most common and intimate thing, I expressed my deep and simple feelings for my father, my hometown and my motherland.

plaster

? Peng Guoliang

Sounds kind, writes kind.

Suddenly looked at his feet in a daze. These are feet that are not completely numb. They are entangled in socks of one kind or another, oppressed and surrounded by leather shoes, travel shoes, cloth shoes and slippers and all kinds of shoes. She looks pale. Its nails itch. His skin was torn off piece by piece. It is hard in cement, and it gives off the smell of pecking on the seemingly elegant carpet. He had no choice. It's far away from sunshine and mud. Missed.

Put your feet into the mud, even in winter, there is a kind of warmth. As long as you don't hit the city by mistake, no one says the mud is dirty.

The feet stuck in mud are all healthy feet, with ten toes spread out and the sun standing on the grass smiling. The world is very big.

One night, I was sitting on the ridge of my hometown, rubbing a wet mud. I want to squeeze a lot of languages in, but I can't think of some unspeakable emotions to squeeze out shapes. The smell of the earth infected me, and slowly I became sleepy. That night, I tossed and turned in a muddled dream.

My tongue is blistered. It is fire. Mother asked me to stick my tongue on an old earthen wall. In less than a bowl of tea, the bubbles on the tongue disappeared. I have a stomachache and a fever. My dad opened the water tank and twisted a lump of mud on my navel. The fever went down before I knew it. Mud and sand are everywhere. Mud is always friendly to people who come near it.

The son is at his grandmother's house in the country. Small barefoot on the mud, it is particularly spiritual. That is the spirituality that children who have never played with mud lack. My father, who has dealt with mud all his life, is covered with mud again. Before I could plant grass, I knelt in front of the grave and talked to my father through the thick soil. Mud walls and tiles. Father's grave is next to this house. I like sitting at the door, smoking a cigarette and drinking a few mouthfuls of tea cooked in clay pots. Father seems to have no regrets, because mud has always been with him.

There are always some mud marks on my pants. I have to write some words with mud smell. I am grass growing out of mud, and leaving mud means the end of my life. However, the helplessness of life makes people don't want to nod or shake their heads.

Mud is a great wise man.