But who dares to pick up a handful of soil and pour it all over the body from head to toe? Only for dreams, the sun in Africa wilts the first blooming flowers; for love, a man’s concentration when chasing prey has long broken his infatuation; only for freedom, when the sky overlooks the yin and yang, if you can’t hold each other hand, who is soaring at this moment? When the African soil baptized a woman's body and mind, she decided to go out of Africa and look back. At least one farm had been kissed affectionately and worked hard to cultivate, and this is her own story.
People can tell the story with ups and downs, every detail, but life is always sad at the moment of writing. Either the tragedy has caught the shadow, or I don't know how to intertwine left and right on the keyboard of life. So when most people wanted to build a pool around their river, the water went where she was supposed to go. Just pack your bags and go to your Africa, and when you come back one day, tell your own story.
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