Not the withered seedlings buried under the soil, the farmer's rough and strong hands yearning for the rice bank full of grain, not the love running in the snow-white hail weather, the mother's kind hands touching the children's sad head, not the rolling grave on the river of tears, running in the dirty dream, the living portrait of lovers pasted on the broken window at dawn, a man's hoarse throat, not hate tears rolling on the tablecloth covered with soil