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年少不懂故乡。小时候老师让写关于故乡的作文,我用稚嫩的小手握着笔,在空白方格纸第一行的中间郑重地写下“我的故乡”四个字,然后闭上眼睛,回想着那个不算繁华的小县城,咬着嘴唇在纸上写完四百字的作文。那时候的我对故乡的理解只是家乡的几座房子、几缕炊烟、几株梧桐和几个人影。我以为故乡就是家乡,就是地球上那小小的一隅。直到后来外出求学,去到一座距离故乡几百公里的城市,或是一个有12小时时差的国家,我才慢慢明白,原来故乡,并不只是一片特定的土地,或是一
Young do not understand the hometown. When I was a child, the teacher let me write essays about my hometown. I held the pen with a little childish hand and solemnly wrote the words “my hometown” in the middle of the first row of blank graph paper, then closed my eyes and remembered that Not a bustling little town, biting his lip and writing four hundred words on the paper composition. At that time, my understanding of my hometown was just a few houses in my hometown, a few wisps of smoke, a few strains of Indus and several figures. I think hometown is hometown, that tiny corner of the earth. It was not until I went out to study, to a city hundreds of kilometers from my hometown, or to a country with a 12-hour jet lag, and I realized slowly that the old homeland was not just a piece of land,