老屋时光用青苔做脚,从山涧走上了台阶。那刻我不知道谁是房子的主人。父母、我,还是门前朝夕相处的树影。瓦片整齐地排列在屋顶,如同我胸膛的肋骨,连着我的心脏。我的心扉被煅烧得同瓦片一样青黄。红绸的花伞,鲜艳得如同我汹涌澎湃的血液。故乡的雨滴是散落一地的纸鸢。沿着我的经脉,游历了整个中华。我退着走回老屋,犹如从中年一直回到童年。扒开每一片残败的瓦片,寻找每 Old house time with moss feet, from the mountain stream onto the steps. At that moment I do not know who the owner of the house. Parents, I, or the shadow of the morning and evening along the door. Tiles neatly arranged on the roof, like my chest ribs, attached to my heart. My heart is calcined as yellow as the tile. Red silk umbrella, bright as my surging blood. Hometown raindrops are scattered kite paper. Along my meridians, traveled the entire Chinese. I stepped back to the old house, as if from middle age has been back to childhood. Picking up every piece of tile, looking for each