Each one of us, who are also his hometown. The home is a sweet Golden beam, is the place to leave beautiful memories in my life. Even though they have to go away, never one to remember about his native land of his father.I grew up in the hollow, where enjoy the straight-wing aircraft Stork fields. And perhaps the country rice fields you always have an attractive drag people away thinking about give his navel. The spring morning out standing in the first villages that look the same, then fascinated to know how! Wind light spring wheat undulating waves, blows every, every chase each other out forever. A flock of white Storks flying wings spread, the deep blue sky highlights. For these sessions is when farmers go to the grass, the same busy up the sentence, the song shifts.. Each colourful enough butterflies like toying with carpets of green barley. On the rice season enjoy are nine, if anyone stands in far away look back will see a vast Yellow Sea. Scattered throughout the fields farmers are harvesting rice, white hats bobbing on the Council. Until the afternoon wind was blowing lightly on rice, nồm waggle and railings as whispering confidences with one another. Collection afternoons, mist mantle field, looked away as a dilute the smoke white, thanks thanks. Light, mist melts to leave drops glitter on rice leaves.Till the Sun heating up the field, the rays take on the untold as mist seeds please n li ti, light up the colourful light, colourful look very nice.
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