按: When I was doing it, I felt not sure if I could complete it or not, but bit by bit, I am so pleased that I did it, but I am not sure if it is okay to read it aloud or be read in silence. Hope friends here may enjoy it. Just had smelt the fall, then I heard the steps of winter approaching already. And now, it's getting warmer and warmer, even by the lakes you feel so; springs are always wonderful.
春天: Sun, no argues, the immortal-icon of vitality. Spring, is the best season for ‘John Denver’s’ or ‘Alan Jackson’s’, country romances sung by those handsome cool-boys. If you may just find a big and heavy mug full of fresh milk, and drink it. Impossibly, not to picture yourself into the scene of a ranch, like a cowboy, be drunken with the west-dreams or enchanted by the night-fire;singing, or maybe chasing after a bus driven into the vast land left the mass greenness behind. When music ended, lips wet and sugary, likely creamy; being perhaps poetic, then, trying to read in silence a poem of spring authored by whose-so-ever.
夏天: Through the summer leaves, it shadows; pattens drawn magically onto the tree and scattered at ground. In the heat blistering, and humid; if ‘The Judd’s’ or Dolly Patron’s were picked, next, an 'iced-Ram Jazz' from next-door convenience; but not to forget ‘Lime’s. For ‘country’ lovers, even the days are long and harsh, there is always moment to dream: being taken away in the noise of a crowd, and the traffic; a neat looks of a cowboy, a hat, a big-buckled belt, surely, a western-boots; relaxing in the fields; let the melodies bringing you to the end-less simplicity and sincerity; only in the country’s, a country luxury that beyond imagination never too lavishly. Or surely, you may also recite to your hearty-one loudly, or in whispering the Shakespeare’s sonnets’. Or ( the poems of century’s )
APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. T. S. Eliot: The WasteLand