清明一定要回家的。我有两个家,一个站在村庄里,一个坐在麦田里。村庄里的家,叫老家,住着父母;麦田里的家,叫坟冢,住着祖辈。一条土路,牵着家和冢,让时光显得完整、和谐。这条路上,走着人,也走着庄稼。庄稼一茬茬被收回家,人一茬茬被埋进冢。时光一茬摞一茬,从容不迫。清明,清洁明净,麦草青青。那些躬身在麦田里的背影,常常难以分辨,哪个是坟?哪个是人?他们都以躬耕的姿势,把头埋进麦田,露出如弓的脊背,把时光射出千里之外。我总是产生错觉,有时把坟认作荷锄除草的人,有时把人认作落地生根的坟。 Ching Ming must go home. I have two homes, one standing in the village, one sitting in the field of wheat. Home in the village, called home, living parents; home in the wheat fields, called the graves, lived in ancestral. A dirt road, holding home and mound, make time look complete and harmonious. On this road, walking people, also walking the crops. Crop stubble was taken back home, stubble was buried in the mound. Time stubble pile, calmly. Ching Ming, clean and bright, green wheat. Of those who bend in the back of the wheat field, often difficult to tell which one is a grave? Which is a human? They are bowed position, head buried in the wheat fields, exposing his back like a bow, the time fired thousands of miles away. I always have the illusion that sometimes the grave is considered as a weeder and weeder, sometimes as a graveyard.