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有樱桃枝摇荡的泥窗凌晨梦见老屋,我十三岁之前的睡房。靠东墙垛顶上那一排泥窗,保留着树皮的吱呀的后门,猪草的青汁浸在泥地的痕迹,一摇晃就扑落灰尘的蚊帐,从蚊帐上落下的竹叶、苍蝇、长脚蚊、蜘蛛。透过蚊帐隐约看见去安源的毛主席,他握着把油伞。但睡在蚊帐里的不再是那个青春期刚刚到来的孩子,而是现在的我,且不只我一人,还有妻。我指着那些泥窗告诉妻,它们就是我多次在文章里写到的泥窗。那一排泥窗
Dreams of old house with cherry branches swinging muddy windows early in the morning, my bedroom before the age of thirteen. On the top of the east wall stack that row of mud windows, retaining the bark of the creak back door, pig’s green juice soaked in the mud traces of a shake on the dust nets, bamboo leaves falling from the mosquito net , Flies, pests, spiders. Visible through the nets to Anyuan Chairman Mao, he holds the umbrella. But sleeping in a mosquito net is no longer that adolescent just arrived children, but now I, and not only me, but also a wife. I pointed to those muddy windows and told my wife that they were mud windows I wrote many times in the article. That row of mud window