一把古老的琴,从昨天弹到今天,韧度极好的弦从未锈蚀。小河在山下,水偷了山的绿色,在大大小小的鹅卵石间弯弯曲曲地淌,从顽皮孩童捞鱼的竹筐里路过,从腼腆村妇的捶衣石下路过,轻扯着河畔杨柳抽芽的枝条,撩拨着嬉水少年舒展的双臂。小河快乐地长大。小河是有灵性的。在阴云翻滚、霪雨肆虐时,那份浊浪排空、一泻千里的凶悍委实令人胆寒,完全是一副不畏生死的战士模样。当雨后新霁,小河便又恢复昔日的和平,甚至更焕发出一种朦胧的神采。故乡的小河是一把好琴,那根质地柔韧的弦,时常伸入我的梦里。 An ancient piano, played from yesterday, today, the toughness of the strings never rust. Small river in the mountains, stolen the green mountains, between the large and small cobblestone twists and turns, naughty children from fishing in the bamboo basket pass by, Riverside willow branches budding, tending leisurely juvenile stretched arms. The creek grew happily. The creek is spiritual. Tumbling in the clouds, when the rains raging, that part of the muddy empty emptying, blew out of the cruel and indeed daunting, is completely a life-and-death soldiers look like. When the rain began, the stream restored its former peace even more glow with a hazy expression. The hometown of the river is a good piano, that root flexible texture of the string, often into my dreams.