时间轻轻咬一咬枫叶,落下的就是深秋了。记忆中的快镰刀,是妈妈用月光洗过的那一把。那时候,麦子和我,都是妈妈写下的诗。一梦十多年,醒来时,发现自己躺在一个名叫天水的古城。阴郁的天空阳光很无力,诗意的日子很消瘦。那颗蜷缩在墙角的枯草,怀抱着自己的影子,看着秋天的词语滴溜溜挂在树上,渴望着来年的雨水,泛滥成诗行。 Time to bite a bite maple leaf, fall is late autumn. The quick sickle in memory is the one Mom had washed with the moonlight. At that time, wheat and me were the poems written by my mother. A dream for more than a decade, woke up and found himself lying in an ancient city called Tianshui. Sunshine sky is gloomy, poetic days are thin. That curled up in the corner of the hay, embrace their own shadow, watching the fall of the words hanging on the tree, eager year after year of rain, floods into the poetic line.