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记得八十年代末的一个早晨,经过风口,我感觉到冬天真正来临了。雨夹在风中,阴暗地刺痛了皮肤,回到家里我再不愿出门。周围的一切离我太远太远,唯有诗歌与死亡离我那么近那么亲。犹如雪莱的一生,正是他对这个世界的好心好意导致了他的不幸。在我心中的世纪末更是如此,干净、执着的心灵越来越少,好心好意对待这个世界是疼痛的根源。那时,诗人们就像当年的红卫兵大串连,只要你写诗,你搞诗歌流派,诗歌运动,在诗歌的江湖上混得有一些名气,那么不管你认识不认识都可以敲开全国任何一个诗人的房门,自报姓名,然后坐下来有吃有喝。记得当时,有人冒充诗人丁
I remember a morning of the late eighties, through the outlet, I feel the winter really coming. Rain caught in the wind, dark skin hurt, I would not go back home again. Everything around me is too far away, only poetry and death so close to me so close. Like Shelley’s life, it was his kindness toward the world that led to his misfortune. This is especially true at the end of the century in my mind, with fewer and fewer clean, persistent hearts and the kind-hearted treatment of the world as the root cause of pain. At that time, the poets were like the Red Guards in those days. As long as you wrote poetry, you practiced poetry and poetry, and got some fame in poetry and rivers, you can knock on the country whether you know it or not Any poet’s door, self-reported name, then sit down and eat and drink. I remember at the time, someone posing as a poet Ding