The remote remotest places,there is a very small path,the child in the roadside is crying alone, Even if wind among the yesterday rain steal balloon of him perhaps,hang and do the tree-top of office in way it. His father has known this,says good-bye to the hometown to look for alone,but has not come back again; Mother has known this,stand at the gate waiting everyday,until turning into a stone, But the heart is still alive; Because so,the child has to shoulder parcels,the way at oneself . He has been walking towards the end of the way all the time ,until one day,he loses oneself, He has to stay and cried in the roadside ,until one day,he knew at last that oneself had been that a way has been blind all the time originally. People are all that ways are blind in fact,because in the pursueing of life,you always forget who oneself was once, I am,you are,he too. This is a voyage,the voyage of the life,in the mountain valley, Little brook walk parcel of him,flow and walk happiness of him too,in the woods, The branch hook has broken his clothes,sew the heart which has broken him with large stitches too. He is no longer him who is original ,he is only a lost child,sits in the roadside crying alone, Until he finds himself,it's a pity that this can not be found forever,because he has lost oneself forever.


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