月光是一串亘古的银线,辽阔的山野,旖旎的水色,经它的缀饰,便有了村庄的史册。每一页,都有着时光点染的墨迹,那春天的新芽,夏夜的蛙声,秋日纷落的黄叶,冬夜的风雪,每一笔,都是月色的幻变,浸淫在谁人望眼欲穿的期许里?父亲悬挂在檐前废旧了的那一枚扁担,是抽象了的月光吗?夜夜晃荡在奔跑的风中,偶尔还晃进我的梦里。母亲桑烟煨暖的夜空,是月色葳蕤的源泉么?每一次仰望,都琼浆一般灌进我深陷的眼眸中,给我温暖与皈依的牵念。还有那枯朽了的 Moonlight is a string of ancient silver lines, the vast mountains, charming water color, decorated by it, they have the annals of the village. Each page, there are time-stained ink, that spring buds, frogs of summer nights, yellow leaves autumn fall, winter snow and snow, every pen are moonshine phantasmagoric, immersion In the eyes of people who wish to wear? My father was suspended in the eaves of the old pole was absent, abstract moonlight? Night sloshing in the wind of the run, and occasionally slipped into my dream. Mother mulberry smoke simmering in the night sky, is the source of the moonlight Mody? Every look, all the general irrigation into my deep eyes, give me a warmth and the concept of conversion. And that decadent