A drive that curved around the mountain quartzite road, who is carrying the front. Sit down in a corner of the courtyard.And stare.Last night the sky first broke into the contours of the mountains, dark blue sky, indigo mountains, it is very nice.Insects in the surrounding sounds, chirp, chirp, squeak.Thoughts and the insects, swept over memory. Think of my grandmother, and when she is not too old, really not old.She was able to carry a few pounds of moving grass baskets, Scattered fine; she can playful duck, thrust out all over the hospital to fly; she can wash a big tub of clothes, full of a rope hanging.Like summer, grandmother shaking hands palm-leaf fan, shook shook and stopped.She will be determined by looking at somewhere, muttering her past. Startled hesitated and found the ground already is a moon, with the shadows shook, very real.My mother once said, deep in the mountains, carrying her childhood all had a good time trail.Seems like telepathy, grandmother actually took me into the mountains. Hazy mist kissed valley, under dead leaves, I do not know who’s hiding raving.Suddenly, a quartzite paved trail is not unexpected appearance, set foot on that moment, I do not know how to describe. A large a large memory to pound me.In vacantly misty, like a woman holding a child, a wisp of mist dissipated.The sky suddenly flew a group of Guyan, wings overlapping voice resounded through the mountains.At this point I was holding hands grandmother, shambling walk on the road, mountain road is still long, long, I always smile, the mountain also seems to me to laugh, laugh more bent.Trance, I seem to hear the little voice in singing ballads – wood to spend summer there is hail.Lee spend, big autumn frost. When suddenly remembered the young, who rest on this mountain road, listening to my grandmother say that the cycle is repeated, there is no story in the mountains old monk of the temple at the end of.Now look back, not a good feeling in their hearts.Years was originally composed of many former mountain is the former, there is a temple in the past, the old monk is past. The long white sunlight, storyteller, has long white hair frost. Suddenly, the grandmother stopped in a small way.Oh, that’s a vicissitudes of old trees, the occasional bird, will stop on its bare branches.My grandmother pointed it around the waist of a mark, which is the mother of a naughty child, take the ax.I can not help but laugh, but after the emotion is.Years no amount of shadow light waves Tao, also a rare shake it up, it is time, the sitting.I was lucky, because time happens in this small road turned a corner, so I peep into the grandmother’s past, peep into the mother’s past. All the memories, this time brought together into one place, that place is in the past.In former times, the former things, former azure blue sky, some people call it, the home of the soul.And I call it, a ride mountain.It can be real name is – years.