风起正午,又起风了。辽阔的塔克拉玛干大漠汹涌着无边无际的荒凉。天边边上,一头毛驴拉着车颤悠悠地跑来。一路上,晃荡起淡淡的沙尘,像一条驼巾向着辽远的天空甩去。远远地,太阳也在那缕沙尘上跳荡。此刻,买买提·卡德尔大叔怀抱一把镰刀沿着大唐的烽燧小跑而来。雪山样的刃口闪出三四处光点像三四个小太阳不停地闪亮。细细一看,宛若内心久存的玻璃碎片让风一下子吹了出来。 Wind started noon, but also the wind. The vast Taklamakan desert raging endless bleak. On the edge of the sky, a donkey took the car running leisurely. Along the way, the sloshing slightest dust, like a camel towel toward the distant sky thrown away. Far away, the sun is also jumping on that plume of dust. At the moment, Uncle Meadie Cardle embraced a sickle along the beacon of Datang. Snow-like blade flashing three or four spots like three or four small sun shining constantly. A closer look, just like the heart of glass fragments so that the wind suddenly blown out.