一道道房门关上了。我推开大门那沉重的门扉。它抵抗着我的推力。从前,母亲每天黎明把门打开,让清新的空气进入屋内,并在阴暗的四壁内把它囚禁到傍晚;那推门的吱嘎声常常把我从梦中惊醒。我往前走了几步,我停下来,我倾听着。九月的草儿不再颤动了。我仿佛听见葡萄架下有蟋蟀唱歌,但那也许只是我耳朵的嗡鸣和往昔的夏日在我记忆中的絮语。半轮残月挂在空中。月光是微 The door closed. I opened the door that heavy door. It resisted my thrust. Once upon a time, my mother opened the door at dawn every day, letting fresh air enter the house and imprisoning it in the gloomy walls until late afternoon; the creaking of the door often awoke me from my dreams. I walked a few steps forward, I stopped, I listened. The grass of September is no longer shaking. I seem to hear the singing of crickets under the grapevines, but that may only be the buzz of my ear and the last summer’s memory of my memory. Half moon moon hanging in the air. Moonlight is micro