当故乡的倩影渐次在游子远行的目光里消瘦,何处才是我们安放灵魂与怀念的归宿?记忆里,旧居的屋顶始终泛着清幽的微光,多年以后依然温暖着我日益孤寂的梦境。那时候,阳光穿透厚重的明瓦,须臾间便染上了丝丝古朴的气息。木阁楼下有纸飞机白色的身影轻盈地掠过,它们在小姑教我们哼唱的童谣里上升、翻转或坠落,簌簌的声响承载着我和堂弟孩提时期无尽的遐想与欢愉。 When the hometown of Qian Ying gradually wandering in the wandering vision, where is our destination for the rest of the soul and memory? Memory, the roof of the old home always glow with quiet glimmer, years later, still warm my increasingly lonely dream . At that time, the sun shone through the heavy Mingwa, Xuanyan was infected with the slightest rustic flavor. Under the attic there was a white paper plane flying lightly over them. They rose, flipped or crashed in the nursery rhymes in which our little girl taught us to sing, and the sound of the grubs carried the endless reverie and joy of my childhood with my cousin.