Rewrite Picking Rose into a 300 word essay

The willows flutter together with the wind. The flying branches and leaves, scattered and orderly, not barren, not decadent.

Walking on the road to the expedition, facing the breeze, the heart is relaxed, and the hardships of marching and fighting can also drift away with the wind.

As a soldier, in the face of the battlefield and the journey, I am not afraid or timid.

The haze in the sky refused to dissipate for a long time, and the air exuded a faint and moist atmosphere, and the leaves on the side of the road swayed together with the wind. I am tired of running around every day, but I have no complaints. It should also be the essence of a military man.

Today, to embark on this road again is to come back, to return home - this long-lost embrace.

The rain and snow are falling, and the willows when they come are more mature, and they become more thorough and refreshing under the washing of the rain.

The attachment to the hometown is instantly released, and the long-lost comfort and happiness, in fact, do not need to say too much.

On the road, mixed with the fragrance of the earth, smelling, a new feeling, and the mood suddenly became brighter.

Perhaps, there is no sadness, for the sake of the motherland, for the frontier, there is indeed no regret.

I don't know if it works, I hope it helps you!

I can't understand what the last chapter means. Okay, I'll just follow the previous four sentences.

I always think of that spring, the spring when the willows hang down the shore and the catkins fly. The smoke and clouds and willow moon, the ancient embankment and the Baqiao, the fishing song sings over the mountains, and the skirt of the lotus picker girl is faintly raised in the wind, like a puddle of budding new green.

Now, however, because the sound of the trumpet may sound at any moment, no one dares to take off their armor and sleep. We lay in the cold iron armor, falling into the cold dreamland, fearing that when we woke up, we would see the enemy's golden iron horse in front of us. In the screams, blood and tears, I looked at the falling gray hair in a daze, who would have thought that this war had already made me old.

Listening to the urgent orders repeated thousands of times, and pulling the thin military uniforms, we are in such a hurry, are we rushing to victory or death? This long war is extremely tireless, and I would rather be a farmer who cooks wine and talks about mulberry and hemp, rather than fight in a foreign country and see the road of my hometown.

The cuckoo in the mountains cried blood, and the war was over. We finally set foot on the road we came, but unfortunately we are no longer young men who walk in the wind, and we have experienced life and death, and the blood, tears and lives we carry make our feet heavy. When we left home, the wind and the sun seemed to be still in front of us, but now the snow is as big as a seat, and no one knows about it.

I vaguely remember that my house was in the east of the village and stumbled through the door. But when he saw that the courtyard was barren, and the basil was in disorder. There is no one to complain about the joys and sorrows in the belly, the joy is that the war has ended, and the sadness is that the old man has gone. Leave me a white-eyed man, and look at the old man's house with sorrow, and don't know where to go.