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没有荣光的游子私自归来荣光尽失。山道蠕动的车辆,像一匹瘦弱的老马。苍老的日历,泛黄的记忆,无法考证一颗漂泊的心,该是多少次,满载着一腔泪水归来。总有一些树木,年轮和我的岁数相仿,离家时的鄙夷,依旧镌刻在身。尽管都老得笑不动了,风吹过时,掉了门牙的枝丫,还在拼着老命摇摆。移不动的大山,劈不开的山路,就像丢不掉的贫穷,连缀着故乡,斩也斩不断。所有的希望,幻化成一道道魔咒,一年年,紧箍着这些走出去的,或是即将走出去的,
Glory of the wanderer glory return lost. Road creeping vehicles, like a thin old horse. Calendars, yellowing memories, can not be verified a drifting heart, how many times, filled with a tear back. There are always some trees, rings and my age is similar to leave home contempt, still engraved in the body. Despite all the old laughter, the wind outdated, out of the incisors of the branches, still struggling swinging. Moving the mountain, the mountain can not be split, just as the poverty can not afford to lose, with hometown, cut also cut continuously. All hope, turned into a magic spell, year after year, tightly with these going out, or about to go out,