行走的云一朵云,说瘦就瘦了下来。一朵行走的云,似是不堪思念的重负,突然就瘦了。在诗人的词藻里,在画家的写意中,瘦成了一瓣花,瘦成了一弯月芽,瘦成了一抹淡淡的疼痛……我不是诗人也不是画家,只是背朝故土的布衣。当我拖着褴褛的背影,走在别人的远方,那一刻,只有寂寞的乡愁,只有颠簸的长: A cloud of walking clouds, said the thin lost. A walking cloud, it seems unbearable burden, suddenly lost. In the poet’s rhetoric, in the painter’s impressionism, thin became a flower, lean into a crescent bud, thin into a hint of pain ... ... I am not a poet nor a painter, but the commoner back to the commoner. When I dragged the ragged back, walking in the distance of others, that moment, only the lonely nostalgia, only the bumpy long: