在豫西那片沟壑纵横的原野上,我出生的村子,偏僻如我逯姓的五岔沟,像一捧秋草,悄然藏在满是褶皱的万古荒原上。冬天的炉火旁,奶奶嘴里总是那么几个老掉牙的故事;夏夜的槐树下,妈妈的芭蕉扇再也扇不出新鲜的童话;而父亲的烟袋锅又只会燃些索然无味的乡村旧事。苦难的岁月像一片龟裂的旱地,把乡村少年萎蔫成一株株瘦弱的衰草,要不是那些走村串巷说唱艺人大鼓书的滋润,我们焦渴的心苗几乎被寂寞掩埋。 On the wilderness that stretches across the valley in western Henan, the village I was born in, like the Wuchagou of my surname, is like a handful of autumn grass, quietly hidden in the ever-waning foliage. Next to the winter fire, my grandmother mouth is always so few old story; summer night under the tree, the mother’s banana fan fan no fancy fresh fairy tale; and his father’s cigarette bag pot will burn some unscented Old things in the country. Suffering years like a cracked dry land, the rural youth wilting into a strain of thin frail, or those who walk around the village rap artist drum book moisture, our heart-thirsty heart is almost buried by loneliness.