春秋堂就爱这屋和屋外的芭蕉,坐下便忘了身在哪个朝代,便忘了活在哪一世。秋雨连夜赶来,敲打一扇掉漆的木门,偶尔的叩门声就是我了,我斑驳苍老不想示人。黑白电视里走出一颗士大夫心,那是我吗?那抱柴回家烧饭的是我吗?那坐在每一滴茶水上入定的是我吗?银杏叶扫着扫着,更多人找不到家了。满地都是心,心,心,金黄的渴念,褐色边缘的寂灭。 Spring and Autumn Church love this house and outside the house banana, sat down and forgotten in what dynasty, they forgot where life lived. Autumn night came, beat a paint-off wooden doors, and occasionally knocking on the door is me, I mottled old do not want to show people. Black and white TV out of a scholar-doctor heart, that is me? That is the firewood home cooking is me? That sitting in every drop of tea into the fixed is me? Ginkgo leaves sweeping, more people find Not home now. Montreal is the heart, heart, heart, golden thirst, brown edge of the quiescence.