We walked on the road Looking back, how many familiar lives have drifted away? How many strong feelings slowly fade? Always looking for a kind of spiritual support, always looking for a warm heart, so, enter the folk-culture area of foshan tourist attractions, it is our familiar and warm home.

The thousands of pillars of the shack had floated up the smoke of the people's cooking, the thousands of wisps of thatched house had been filled with the dream of the people; How can a slate-roofed mud house cover the gallantry of the Pakistani people? How can the courtyard courtyard patio surround the Pakistani people's pursuit? On the stilted building who is still throwing the hydrangea ball, the world of the man hit the spirit upside down? Wind and rain bridge who is still singing love songs, the world of women to stir up complacent and disorderly love fan? That is, the hook, the pot, the cage of firewood, the ancestors had cooked the world; That is a sieve, a pair of grinding, a roller, the ancestors have let the world taste. And turn over the mountain hingzi -- a call of the voice to open the way to the return of the soul; Ba xiang qingjiu - a heaven and earth of the old cellar brewing years of sweetness. Such is our history, dig out, was a basket back out, was a sickle, and, by plow plow is sweat soaking out, by leaving the wisdom, is the sprinkling down out of heaven, come out in the land.
We thus speak to history, to our ancestors, to heaven and earth. A long-lost home, warm our hearts.