怎样的一双眼睛,才能读懂你枯叶的脉络?岁月不经意的一个趔趄,你竟已摇晃不稳。也许季节只是四个敞开的大门。纹丝未动。因为活着,你必须一次又一次地穿过。进与出,哪个更能让你感觉自身的存在?你托举的一个空荡的鸟巢,仿佛你朝天张开的嘴,皲裂的皮肤不再愈合,有多少伤痛在裂口淤积着。我不去揣摩,为何你将时间镌刻于心窝。深冬的天,树心虫都已不声不响地冬眠。天空不会有闪电,不用担心被拦腰截断,为何你仍 What kind of eyes, can you understand the context of your dead leaves? Years inadvertently a shy, you have actually shaken instability. Maybe the season is just four open doors. No moving silk. Because of being alive, you have to cross it again and again. Into and out, which makes you feel more about their own existence? You lifted an empty nest, as if you open mouth, cracked skin no longer heal, how much pain in the deposition of the gap. I do not try to figure out why you have time engraved in my heart. Winter days, tree worms have quietly hibernated. There will be no lightning in the sky, do not worry being cut off by the waist, why are you still