天边最后一抹火烧云熄灭,浓浓夜幕低压四野,长夜便开始在热气骤退的草原上流动。天地间只剩下黑暗里点点流萤,一片篝火。牧民们披上御寒的大皮袄,端起盛满马奶酒的大碗,看着铁皮罐下跳动的火苗,一股暖流自然从肺腑升起涌向喉头,化为一种孤独的声音,缓缓的,沉沉的,滔滔而来。 The last hurdle on the horizon, the cloud of fire was extinguished, and the night was full of darkness. After a long night, it began to flow in the retreat of the hot grasslands. Only a little darkness in the world between the firefly, a bonfire. Herdsmen put on the warm coat, put a bowl full of kumiss, looked at the flames under the tin cans, a stream of natural warmth flowing from the heart to the throat, into a lonely voice, slow Slow, heavy, surging.