The rainy season comes, Hoa Quynh begins to raise buds from long and affected branches. Early the old man also stood there, raising each flower on the night. Mac Huong passed over, she sorely looked at the old man's hand. The flower kept in the middle of the batch, Mac Huong had never been watching Quynh hatched flowers, but its sharpness kept haunting in her dreams, because he wrote about it .
.. her heart wrapped in looking Flower wilt gradually, then unexpectedly happy to see the new bud floor.0: 00/16: 31 South "he planted a monolster of Quynh in the commemorative park
You go and I sometimes come home Take care of flowers instead of him ... "It's his last advice. That night he died, in his love wife's arms. * That morning street is very crowded. Mac Huong Lac in the middle of the sea of the spring conference, on their faces wearing a masked mask of flowers. Mac Huong is lost in an old spring, with the sound of the money falling on the street in the city, the legs of the poetry flute dance under the leafy roots. Heavenly lands out a slightly warm thing like alcohol. The little pink chubby baby holds a red blue paper
Only they appear with real faces, real laughter, are sweaty. Someone calls her name: "Mac Huong! Mac Huong!" Make her awake. Looking at just saw the masks grinning toe. Mac Huong confused turned away, maybe she was confused, as many times in my life. But that call is still sad in the middle of the Spring Festival such as wedge: "Mac Huong!". Like a dreamy, she picked up a mask. The old face appears with long and deep wrinkles. That old man asked her: - What do you see, the girl? - I went to find the anniversary park - Mac Huong answered with the sadness of pain. It was there. The old man turned to raise his finger to the sky. Only Anh Xuan Quang was in it, with neurons constantly changing. Saying it, the old man leaned back to the mask on his face, continuing to go into the group of the association. Signing of Mac Huong: "His ashes buried right on the British garden campus. So his wife imprisoned him Even after I died. God! Before leaving me what did you say to her? Affordable you are lied to say ... I don't have a story about a monolester of Quynh, I don't say, I waited for me to surpass a few hundreds Kilometers returned, only to tell the short words to Hoa Quynh. I have never heard that park name, I asked my friends but no one knew. Did you lose my memory in the moment Lam Chung? ? The whole life he lived with ancient nostalgia about his life, so that he couldn't stop it anymore. Perhaps it was because of that, he became a writer ...? ". On the day That path. That old man still stood inside, watching hitches with freshness with quietly quiet, not noticing anything else. But she felt that the old man belonged to him so much. Since the day meets this little house and the small tree, she doesn't go any other way. The dream led her, or did you keep a dream about you? That spring night, she didn't compress her heart, cried between the extreme loneliness. She remembered him - a cold ash. Friends still gathered side of spring wine, still verses, still songs. Still the shadow he fluttered in his meals, in the stories. But it's just like that. The incense is no longer young. But she was really just a child in the first time to meet him. He became her idol - a very simple idol gave her live joy. His eyes, his shape, his words shadowed to her life. She remembered him when eating, when she slept. She belongs to what he wrote, he contemplates, reflects on the book page. But Death came, in the blink of an eye, robbed him away from his loved life. Sequelae of war. That year, the British unit passed through Quang Tri, where the enemy spreads orange. Nobody doubts, a strong healthy person like him in just a few months has become a dried pinch - even though he still knows laughing. Then let it say laughing, he left on a spring night. * The rainy season came, Hoa Quynh began to raise the buds from long and affected branches. Early the old man also stood there, raising each flower on the night. Mac Huong passed over, she sorely looked at the old man's hand. The flower kept in the middle of the batch, Mac Huong had never been watching Quynh hatched flowers, but its sharpness kept haunting in her dreams, because he wrote about it ... her heart wrapped in looking Wilt flowers gradually, then suddenly happy to see new buds. It seems that his eyes, his lips hide in those small flower buds, are waiting for voice voice. He wrote: "At eighteen years old, he cried in front of Quynh hatched in the night ..." But night, there are times when you are nowhere to return, continue whispering, telling the stories he never wrote anymore. She had seen him sit there, flipping pages . Dịch vụ:
Thiết kế website,
quảng cáo google,
đăng ký website bộ công thương uy tín
