你把鹅群赶进一片草地,尔后挨着石头悄悄坐下来,陈旧的识字课本就在风里打开了。一个个嵌着拼音的汉字,跳动在你的眼仁里,念书声草香般飘散开来,偶尔有几个生字咬伤舌头,疼痛的感觉使你想哭。你抬起眼帘,目光顺着草坡滑下去,坡下有你昔日的学校,黑板上的粉笔字温和如老师的目光。曾在这目光的呵护下,你学会了幻想,学会了用歌声铺一条路。 You drove the geese into a meadow and then quietly sat down with stones. The old literacy textbooks opened in the wind. One by one, Chinese characters embedded in Pinyin are beating in your eyes, and the sound of books is drifting away like a prairie. Occasionally, there are a few words that bite the tongue. The feeling of pain makes you cry. You raise your eyes, and your eyes slide down the grass slope. There is your old school under the slope. The chalk on the blackboard is gentle as the teacher’s eyes. Under the care of this gaze, you learned to imagine, learned to use a song to paved the way.