民谣村庄,是古老时光的肋骨。异乡人的列车,劈开时间的刀刃,城市里归来的人,被月光宁静地照耀。车窗外,是热烈燃烧的秋天,秋天把小路抽成鞭子,秋天把河流抱成吉他,而羊群,则带走了尘世中的颤音。母语喂养的蟋蟀声音,仿佛日复一日的家书,在秋天盖上思念的邮戳。 Folk village, is the ancient time of the ribs. A stranger train, split the edge of time, the city returned, quietly shone by the moonlight. Outside the car window, it was a warm, burning autumn. In the autumn, the path was drained into a whip. In the fall, the river was cradled into a guitar, while the flock took the vibrato from the earth. The voice of a native-fed cricket sounds like a home-from-home book, stamped with missing postmark in the fall.