我已经很久没看见过真正的炊烟了。这叫我空虚的内心缺了一些柔软,平庸的生活少了一些诗意,还有许多系在炊烟上四下飘散的味道。少年时,下午放学后,我便兴冲冲地跑回家。不知不觉,太阳踱向西方,一点一点地下沉,孤悬在西山顶上。所有的光芒收敛了,所有的脚步奔波在归家路上,小村子进入黄昏的腹地。从若有若无的浅过渡到草木燃烧后的灰暗,夜的颜色夹在黑与白之间。第一缕炊烟从屋瓦上升起了,起初笔直笔直的,经风一吹,变得 I have not seen real smoke for a long time. This calls for my empty heart to lack some soft, mediocre life less poetic, and many more to smell on the smoke. When I was a teenager, I ran home excitedly after school in the afternoon. Unconsciously, the sun pacing the West, a little bit of sinking, lonely in the top of the West Hill. All the light converges, all the steps go home on the road, the village into the dusk hinterland. From the transition from rumbling to the gloomy after burning grass, the color of the night sandwiched between black and white. The first plume of smoke rising from the roof tiles, straight at first straight, the wind blows, become