我轻轻地握着他的手,小心翼翼地,生怕弄痛了他,但这担心似乎是徒然的。因为他的手是那么粗糙,黑黝黝的,可怕的老茧已长满他的手掌。我抬头望去,头上的银丝已占据了大半部分,强势地向人宣示着岁月留下的痕迹。眼角和额上的皱纹已说明他对岁月不得已的屈服。 I gently hold his hand, cautiously, for fear of hurting him, but this fear seems to be in vain. Because of his hand is so rough, dark, terrible calluses have covered his palm. I looked up, the head of the silver has occupied the majority, a strong declaration of the years left traces of years. The wrinkles on his eyes and forehead have shown his last resort to years.