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于父亲开田时,大地开春起浪了。稻田里起了一层薄薄的水纹,像父亲皱巴巴的手抚过有些皱巴巴的衣襟,抚过那年那月有些皱巴巴的生活。在刚刚过去的冬天,稻田除了结冰,其他日子仅作为一面镜子,让天空对照着梳理几朵乱云或发一点小脾气。往日的翠鸟也不知飞哪里去了。田埂上的铁线草却长得比冬天还长。那个清晨,父亲踩过铁线草上的白头霜去挑水。岁月在他铁线草一样的头发上布满的白头霜,显得那么浅、那么淡了。
When my father opened the land, the earth started to spring up. The paddy field played a thin layer of watery lines, like crumpled drapes of his father’s crumpled hands, stroking some of that crumpled life that month. In the winter just past, in addition to icing the paddy field, the other day only as a mirror, so that the sky combing a few chaotic clouds or made a little temper. Kingfishers of the past do not know where to fly. Field wire on the wire grass is still longer than in winter. That early morning, my father stepped on a white frost on the wire grass to carry water. Years of whiteheads covered in hair like him clematis, it seems so shallow, so light.