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记忆里,有一个幽美的小山村,晚可伴着虫鸣入梦,早又伴着鸟唱醒来。儿时,蜷缩在奶奶的怀里,学着奶奶的手法,剪着窗花。窗子是薄纸拌着糨糊层层地糊在小格子上的,日子久了,被烟熏过的纸窗开始变黄,变暗,变黑。而我剪的窗花歪歪斜斜地贴在上面。那时,太阳无论多大,也无法照进我的小屋,打搅我的梦。现在,当太阳舒展眉头,从天际一隅慢悠悠地升上来的时候,我睡
The memory, there is a beautiful mountain village, night may be accompanied by insects and dreams, early with birds singing and waking up. Childhood, curled up in my grandmother’s arms, learning the way my grandmother, cut the window. The window is a thin paper mixed with paste layering paste on the small grid, the days long, was smoked paper window began to turn yellow, darken, black. And I cut the window crooked stick on it. No matter how big the sun was at that time, I could not shine my dream into my cabin. Now, as the sun stretches its brow, rising slowly from the corner of the sky, I sleep