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1 1976年9月9日,夜幕降临,挂在柱头上的有线广播喇叭奏响了哀乐。播音员哽咽着报了一个开头,我就从家里跑了出去,一路狂奔到晒场。那个夜晚没有月亮,好像有几颗星星。晒场上没有灯,但隐约看得见晃动的人影。正是收谷子的时节,生产队的社员还没有收工,正摸黑忙碌着。我还没来得及站稳,就用尖厉的童音发出了一声呼喊。“毛主席逝世了!”晒场也有一颗心,咯噔一声。
On the night of September 9, 1976, when the night fell, the cable radio horn hanging on the stigma played a sorrow. Announcer choked with a beginning, I ran out from home, ran all the way to the drying yard. There was no moon on that night, as if there were a few stars. No light on the drying floor, but vaguely visible shaking figure. It is the harvest season, the production team members have not yet received work, is busy with the dark. I have not had time to stand firm, uttered a shout with a sharp childish voice. “Chairman Mao passed away! ” There is a heart drying yard, a slight noise.