自己也不知道为什么,从很早的时候,就常有一幅影像在我眼前晃动:我仿佛看到一个垂老的诗人,在暗黄的灯影里,用颤动幽抑的声音,低低地念出自己心血凝成的诗篇。这颤声流到每个听者的耳朵里,心里,一直到灵魂的深处,使他们着了魔似的静默着。 I do not know why, from a very early age, an image often swayed in front of me: I seem to see an old poet, in the shadow of dark yellow, with a dittering voice, read down Plum in his own efforts condensed. This flutter flows into the ears of every listener, in the heart, in the depths of the soul, causing them to mimic the silence.