染香记忆的, 还是村后那片槐林, 追进风雨的, 还是盛夏那片绿荫; 稚嫩的儿歌, 已乘岁月的白云远去, 只有离家前的泪水, 还时时碰疼长大的心。 t年的故辛, 一串串好像今夜星辰, 那一册日子, 每一页都有爱的络印; t年的期盼, 山枣花一样美丽清纯, 只有心头那一续真情, 还一直悄悄 Incense memory, or the village after the Huai Lin, chase into the storm, or piece of shade in midsummer; tender children’s songs, have been years away from the white clouds, only tears away from home, but also often touch the pain grow up heart of. t years of Xin, a string like the stars of the night, that a book, each page has a love of India; t years of hope, as beautiful as pure as pure as the jujube flowers, only the heart that continued the truth, but also has been quietly