天渐渐矮了,脸色青灰凝重,时令收紧了大地的气。冬天来了。高家村十字口照碑前,大人们缩起脖子,手躲进袖筒里,低头想着心事。高音喇叭一如既往地聒噪,传布令人紧张的指示。两个闲汉蹴在碾房,摆开一副油渍斑驳的中国象棋,你喊我叫地厮杀着。喊叫声飘荡在村子上空,酿造出一丝生气。 It was getting dwarfed, his face dark and dignified, seasonal tightening of the earth’s gas. winter is here. Cross-high village according to cross before the monument, adults shrink neck, hands hide in sleeves, bow down thoughts. The tweeter, as always, noisy, spreading tense instructions. Two idle Hanzao in the mill, put on a pair of greasy mottled Chinese chess, you call me to kill. Shouts floating in the sky over the village, brewing a trace of anger.