一瘦峭、温润,像一块颀长的玉,某个并非明月之夜的时刻,渗出斑斑的泪,变成气流,在喉咙和胸腔里喑哑地颤抖。您和我们讲小时候的故事。您插秧很快,您干农活总是第一,后来,村人知道您读书也很好。只是,您从水田的泥泞走进大学的那天,您最爱的父亲走了,他割完最后一捆金黄的稻束,佝偻的背正要站起来,突然就凝固了,这好像是 A thin, gentle, like a long jade, a moon is not the moment of the moon, seeping streaks of tears, into the air flow, in the throat and chest dumb trembling. You tell us the story of childhood. You planted seedlings quickly, you always work first in the farm, and later, the villagers know that you study well. But the day you walked into the university from the muddy paddy fields, your beloved father left, and he cut the last bundle of golden rice, and his back was about to stand up and suddenly solidified, as if