每逢岁末,诸事都觉匆促,但有一段时间却是属于诗,属于诗的慢节奏。长夜里,青灯下,翻阅着那些新鲜的或是稍旧的、有时是蒙了些许灰尘的杂志与诗集,努力摒除杂念和扰攘,静心享受这个过程。而且,不时地回想着一年中它们陆续来到我的书房和案头的情景,那其中有闪现的熟悉面孔,当然也不乏有陌生的想象与设定。我不时地为他们的句子所撞击着,或心弦暗动,或翩然神合,或忍俊不禁,或哑然失笑着。 In the end of the year, everything hurries, but for some time it belongs to the poem and belongs to the slow rhythm of the poem. In the middle of the night, under the green light, read magazines and poems that are fresh or slightly older, sometimes with a little dust, and strive to dispel distractions and distract you from enjoying the process. And, from time to time, I recalled the scenes of the year in which they came one after another to my study and desk, of which there are flashed familiar faces, of course, there are some strange imagination and settings. From time to time, I struck in their sentences, or my heart acted, or I could not help but smile, or laughing a lot.