Watt never reveals his true feelings

  In the country, the thing that saddens me the most is the tile.
  The wind is blowing, the sun is blowing, the rain, snow and frost, the most disadvantaged is the tile, and the least enjoyable is the tile.
  The tile looks aloof and cold, but protects the common people. Without them, the rain falls and falls into the house, and your dwelling will soon become a swamp. Therefore, what we should thank most is the tile, the ordinary and silent tile.
  The sun shone through, the wind blew through, the showers swept through, the years swept away, the time lapsed, and the tile was subjected to many tests in the world; A variety of old and new weapons are cast on the tiles at will.
  Wa usually likes to stand with a bird, the birds run from Wa to the tree, Wa does not mourn or feel melancholy, Wa is always the same, and does not forget the original intention.
  Moss generally likes to live on the tile, and grow together with the tile in the gap of the tile. Moss is a flower that blooms on tiles, and it lasts for thousands of years.
  My father said, “A country without tiles is not called a country.” I go back to the country every year, and I also like to see the tiles in the countryside, simple and elegant, red or purple, embedded in the dimension of time, not only beautiful, as if the years have produced Illusion, time goes back to childhood.
  I prefer to see the peasants working hard in the tile kiln. Their skin is as radiant as tile, full of toughness and incomparably hard. They work without the concept of time, like tiles, despite the changes of time, they are still hard and simple.
  Time can destroy a city, but it cannot destroy a strong belief.
  His father holds a blue tile, works hard and earns meager income. He is like a tile, simple and down-to-earth, not showy or opportunistic. The tiles were shattered and burrowed into the flesh, the blood and the tiles were fused together, and the tiles were alive and bright. In the countryside, there are several small tiles in the hands of every father. They are like bullets, growing in the flesh forever, and still strong when they are old, like bones, clear and strong.
  My father liked to deal with the soil all his life, and the soil shaped the tiles. His father’s character was in the same vein as the tile. The gene of the father had the breadth of the tile, and the life of the tile had the blood and sweat of the father.
  When he met a bricklayer, his dexterous hands were entangled on the tiles. The tiles were obedient and courteous. Pieces of tiles were neatly piled on the ground by him. It didn’t take long for them to appear on the roof of a certain house. .
  Father likes the original blue tile, he said that this tile is atmospheric, classical, and has a kind of vicissitudes of beauty. In fact, I know that he is missing his father and his ancestors. Those tiles have existed for centuries in history, they have witnessed the busy work of generations of young people, from birth to old age, their craftsmanship is simple but mature.
  Walking along the Suzhou River, I met a tile seller, who was selling tile-related artworks. The tiles in one place, all kinds of tiles, are dazzling, and you can choose them at will. When I communicated with him, he talked eloquently: “The object that best represents ancient China is the tile, and the culture of the tile is the culture of the Chinese nation…” He described the culture of the tile in a rich, moving and incisive way, which made people cry.
  I was sitting in a courtyard house in Beijing and saw the rain dripping mercilessly from the tiles. I counted the rain drops and meditated on the bearing capacity of the tiles. I saw again the densely packed tiles that held together so strongly that one broke without negatively affecting the other.
  In the north of Henan, I saw a group of children roast chicken wings on a broken tile, the aroma was overflowing, and my mouth was drooling. At this time, the tiles were impressed by the greatness of their role, and the children were amazed at the strength of the tiles. Even “Samadhi True Fire” cannot defeat a tile.
  I carefully looked at a tile, the tile and I looked at each other, I saw the pattern of the tile, the ravines were crowded, and I couldn’t bear to read it. This is the road of Wa, the road from birth to death, there are mountains and valleys in Wa. I take some credit for my great discovery, but Watt never shows his true feelings.
  No matter how great the credit is, it will not make a tile proud!