我不知道是什么如此使我痴迷,这诗人的足迹在诗歌的韵律中跌宕,从一百年前以来,随意翻开某一页,它就穿越所有黑暗的天空,骤然触摸于我的指掌之间,在我的肌肤上沙沙颤动,使我不仅仅限于用眼睛阅读,也不单单依靠耳朵聆听,我用这些诗歌径直叩动灵魂,我知道这时是谁迫切地需要舞蹈,但悄无声息。这不同于吟诵唐诗宋词,它既不是边塞诗人的那种悲壮苍凉,也不是婉约歌者的衷曲柔曼,它将爱情渲染得像一部始自荒蛮的史诗,因为揭示一贯掩映的真实,使读者变得脆弱而胆怯,心惊肉跳。因此需要将桌前变光的台灯拧至雪亮,然后任零乱的纸片仍然零乱地散在书案。就这样,打开惠特曼、诗和灵魂。这是一股来自一百年前,却始终如今夜 I do not know what infatuated me. The poet’s footsteps rose in the rhythm of poetry. From a hundred years ago, at random, I opened a page and it crossed all the dark sky and touched my finger. Scurvy on my skin, so I am not limited to reading with my eyes, nor listening to my ears alone. I use these verses to direct the soul, and I know who urgently needs dance at this moment, but quietly sound. This is different from chanting the Tang poetry and Song poetry. It is neither the tragic desolation of the frontier poets nor the mediocre gentleman of the graceful singer. It renders love as a piece of epic poems from the wilderness, revealing the truth that has always been set off , So that readers become fragile and timid, scared. Therefore, the need to turn the table lights dim light, and then messy pieces of paper are still mess scattered in the book case. In this way, open Whitman, poetry and soul. It’s a hundred years ago, but it’s always night