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对我而言,有些东西代表怀念。一首老歌,一段老调,一腔乡音,一个陈柜,就似乎有一段尘封的往事来等待我的开启。有时候,怀念的或许不是一段回忆,而是一场盛大的祭奠,用思绪祭奠逝去。乡下的夜,是一个在沉默中爆发的美,披着外套站在院落中,抬头,风带着流苏穿过头发;月,用温柔把我抚摸。远方传来高高低低的狗吠声,却有一种别样的踏实。我知道,夜并不寂寞,星星各自唱着自己的声部,枝条跳着自己的节奏。忆起夏日中,爷爷拉着吱呀的胡琴和那古老收音机里放着奶奶可以哼一整天的老调。日光被树叶分割零落,
For me, there are some things to remember. An old song, an old tune, a cavity accent, a cabinet, it seems there is a dusty past to wait for my opening. Sometimes, the memory may not be a memory, but a grand memorial, with thoughts to pay homage to the past. The night in the country was a beauty erupted in silence, standing in a courtyard in a coat, looked up, and the wind streamed through the hair with a tassel; the moon touched me gently. A dog barks up and down in the distance, but there is a different kind of pragmatism. I know that the night is not lonely, the stars each sing their own voices, branches jumping at their own pace. Recalling the summer, my grandfather took a squeaking huqin and grandparents in her old radio can hum all day. The sun is scattered leaves fall,