Chance encounter, let I and book the indissoluble bound, is to miss the mother in heaven, I know the words to cherish the memory of endless grief. Tears when the song, sing the mother of a child like a treasure, no mother of the child is the grass, to miss a mother of a warm words, and not the mother alone. Use words to talk about a dream, use text to recall the past, use words to write youth burning years, use words to describe sour, sweet, bitter, hot joys and sorrows of life.

No matter how much frustration and pain in life, no matter how many lives harvest joy and sweet, have not given up the pen in the hand, the smile with tears in tears, with written tenacious. Let the words recorded with the pace of growth, make written records with a twist of fate, the pursuit of the hardships, exploration of confusion. Fall one thousand times, one thousand one times to climb up, because the heart has always had a colorful dream. Encouraging oneself to march forward courageously, not afraid of thorns and contusion, say men do not easily shed tears, but not to hurt, not all men are not to cry, but crying after the loss of weakness.

I remember when I was a student, in a very accidental opportunity, met a folk writer, he wrote many novels, prose, poetry published in local newspapers. He is also a countryside cadres, cadres village of my life there, listening to people talk I would like to write about painting, specially come to my house to have a look, give me a lot of writing skills, greatly encouraged me, also points the way for me, opened a window, saw a more distant scenery. He also from time to time will come to my house to have a look I am writing assignments, and explain and guide the insufficient place, make me progress very quickly, and try to make a cast to the newspaper and magazines, are no echo, is the teacher's encouragement, I did not stop the pace, go down, until one day, received newspapers and editor of the letter, my poetry published, see yourself writing finally printed type, surge, I sat for a long time in the river just calm down, see this is the first step in the long march!

Then, write more, more is to write love and nostalgia, because these are my very ripe Italian life, bean curd piece big article being printed. Published in many newspapers and magazines. I also set up a "Red Sorghum" literary agency, put a lot of rural youth love literature, together, each other to explore, progress quickly, has published a major newspaper several people in the province are, we just like a red sorghum, long in the black earth, germination, jointing, heading, in the sun, burning the entire hill.

Later, with the growth of age, have a responsibility, a boy's dignity, I carry the luggage, out of the village, across the meadow, went to the provincial capital. After more than ten years past, I settle down in the provincial capital. My pen is rusty, but my heart that love, always hold me, picked up the heavy pen, the beginning of my dream trip, the heavy words in the smoke as in rain season, drunk in the red dust. The eyes are dim, I feel like writing a novel is twelve words, "sour, sweet, bitter, hot, grief at separation and joy in Union, love and hate". Prose is a language in a walk. Poetry is the heart of the dialogue with the world.

Accidental encounter red rain, inevitable is met, will not pass again, a beautiful encounter, even if it is a sudden bloom, but also to the world of memories, let my words with a sense of grace and love., with simple and calm, drunk in the misty rain, drunk in the world of mortals.