神祇之手已腾空天地,只装清风,只装鸟呜、月色、玉质的星子和树叶。一滴夜露的纯净光芒,洞穿一只笛孔里的故乡,洞穿瓦房的亘古沉默、草树的憔悴乡思,以及一碗土茶里渐渐泡浓的清苦方言。竹篱下一只虫子,呢哝诵读一页古旧经卷。一下一下的蛙鼓,均匀敲击,如清醒的木鱼,故醒一角西天、一条大江、十二座山峰,却 God’s hand has vacated the world, only installed breeze, only installed birds woe, moon, jade stars and leaves. A drop of dew pure light, piercing a flute hole in the hometown, through the tile-roofed ancient silence, grass trees haggard homesickness, and a bowl of earthy tea gradually soaked Qingqing dialect. Under a bamboo fence insect, it read an ancient scroll. Suddenly frog drum, uniform percussion, such as sober wooden fish, so wake up a corner of the West, a river, twelve peaks, but