春天必然是这样的:绿意内敛的山头,一把雪再也撑不住了,扑哧一声,将冷脸笑成花面,一首澌澌然的歌便从云端唱到山麓,从山麓唱到低低的荒村,唱入篱落,唱入一只小鸭的黄蹼,唱入软溶溶的春泥——软如一床新翻的棉被的春泥。那样娇,那样敏感,却又那样混沌无涯。一声雷,可以无端地惹哭满天的云;一阵杜鹃啼,可以斗急一城杜鹃花;一阵风起,每一棵柳都吟出一则则白 The spring must have been like this: Green restrained hill, a snow can no longer hold it up, Puchi loudly, the cold face laughed into the flower face, a song suddenly sang from the cloud to the foothills, sing from the foothills Into the low barren village, singing into the fence, singing a duck’s yellow webbed into the soft dissolving spring mud - soft as a new quilt spring mud. So delicate, so sensitive, but so chaotic boundless. A thunder, you can endlessly make trouble crying clouds; a cuckoo crow, you can rush City azaleas; a gust of wind, each one is Yin Liu Bai Yin