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一块泥巴,就是一片田野。河沟边的小孩扬着双手向禾苗泼水,脆生生地喊着:快快长大、快快长大。一块泥巴,就是一个家。泥巴墙上挂满苞谷棒子和豆秸,母亲打开半扇柴门,一声又一声喊:回家、回家。一块泥巴,就是一顿烟锅。犁铧牢牢在手里握住,黄牛跟着父亲的脚步,缓缓悠悠耕出一轮明月。一块泥巴,就是村里心爱的姑娘。一块叫我心痛的痕迹,是她在谷垛上在我身上咬成的伤疤,疼痛的伤疤、亲亲的伤疤,一声声在呼喊:勿忘我、勿忘我。一块泥巴,就是睡不着的土地。
A piece of mud, is a field. Gully edge of the child Yang Hao hands with both hands splashing water, crisp birth shouted: grow up fast, grow up fast. A piece of mud is a home. Muddy wall covered with cornstalk cob and bean stalks, the mother opened half a Chai door, shouted again and again: go home, go home. A piece of mud, is a smoke pot. Plow-press firmly hold in his hand, follow the pace of the cattle with her father, slowly laid out a bright moon. A piece of mud is the beloved girl in the village. A trace of my heartache was a scars of her bite on me, a sore of a scars of pain, a scotch of my kiss, and a shout: forget yourself, forget me. A piece of mud is the land that can not fall asleep.