人间四月天鸟鸣,像是磨刀石从犁尖磨出的。村民把春天卷进衣袖,村庄像铁匠铺。鞭梢发芽,牛哞由枯转青。父亲像一支用弯了的毛笔,蘸着清香的泥土气息,在田野里书写十亩江山。溅起的泥泞,如斑斑字迹,长出蛙声和稻谷。父亲站在田埂,把日子撇在肋骨上,用一支烟点燃漫天夕阳。暮色中,父亲像一块烧红的铁。 April sky birds in the world, like whetstone grinding from the plow tip. The villagers rolled their sleeves into the spring, the village was like a smithy. Whip shoot sprouting, cow’s milk turn from dry to green. Father like a curved brush, dipped in the fragrance of earth tones, writing in the fields ten mu country. Splashes of mud, such as streaks, grow frogs and rice. His father stood in fields, leaving the days on the ribs, lighting a sunset with a cigarette. In the twilight, my father was like a piece of red-hot iron.