那是一双怎样的手呵!娇小却布满裂痕。掂过锄头,攥过玻璃球,端过乞讨的洋瓷罐儿,握过被施舍的铅笔头。岁月何以在十年的光景沧桑到如此,又何以眷顾这双本应捧着课本的小手?当你掂着高出你几个脑袋的锄头在那片祖祖辈辈耕作过的贫瘠土地上笨拙地扭动,我想握住你的手,拉起你粘着? That’s what kind of hand it is! Petite is full of cracks. Passing through the gimmick, licking the glass ball, passing over the beggar’s pot of foreign porcelain, holding the pencil head that was given to him. Why has the years gone by so many years in the past and why have you neglected the small hands who should have been holding textbooks? When you were carrying a gimmick above your head, you wandered awkwardly on the barren land cultivated by ancestors for generations. I want to hold your hand and pull you sticky?