母亲是一种文字,燃烧在无底的呐喊里。当秋日的麦芒在季节的转移里生辉,母亲用一把锈迹斑斑的犁,牵出了苍老的画靥。她用苦难的泪汗为墨汁,用犁在金黄的地麦写下丰收的诗行。乡村的日子里埋着母亲的善良和慈爱。当铅尘扬起滚滚的黯然,在 The mother is a kind of writing, burning in a bottomless cry. When Maimang of the autumn sun shines in the shift of the season, his mother pulls out the old paintings with a rusted plough. She used the tears of distressed ink as ink, and plowed the golden row of wheat to write a harvest of poetry. The kindness and love of mothers were buried in rural days. When lead dust rises up,