一盏油灯/陪我走过了/-一段最孤寂的路/而今/油尽了/灯却未枯。他俯身在病重的父亲榻前,流着泪读出了这首小诗。床边的小桌上,一盏小油灯点缀着微弱的光芒,在两个男人长短不一的呼吸中摇曳不止。这盏小油灯比他还要年长,这是父亲当年下乡时母亲送给他的。在他的印象中,母亲的形象早已模糊,她给予他的温暖甚至还不如这盏小油灯。 An oil lamp / walked with me / - a section of the most lonely road / Now / oil is done / Lights are not dead. He leaned over the sick father’s bed and read the poem in tears. On the little table by the bed, a little oil lamp dotted the feeble light and swayed in the breath of two men in varying lengths. This small lamp was older than he was, and was given to me by his mother when he came to the countryside that year. In his impression, the image of the mother has long been vague, she gave him the warmth even worse than the small lamp.