一炊烟四起的村庄,让一首首唐诗热泪盈眶。草一样卑微的村庄啊!把你最富饶又最贫穷的部分交给了我;把你弥足珍贵而又轻如尘埃的部分交给了我;把你最沉重的苍凉,而又最快乐的深情的部分交给了我……听不到麦苗拔节声音的我,伫立在异乡清冷的星空下,早出晚归重复那些细小的动作,在深不可测的午夜,一声声对你杜鹃啼血般的呼喊,在雪白的纸上像花朵一样绽放。二半个月亮从村头白杨树林的鸟巢飘出来,照亮了刚刚入睡的村庄,趁着这一地白花花的 A village of smoke and smoke, so a poem Tang tears. The same humble village as grass! Give me the richest and poorest part of me; Give me your precious and light dusty part; Leave your heaviest desolation and happiest Affectionate part to me ... ... I can not hear the sound of barren makings, standing in a strange cold sky, early and late to repeat those small movements, in the unfathomable midnight, the sound of your cuckoo like blood Shouting, blooming like flowers on the white paper. Two and a half months, the moon floated out of the bird’s nest in the aspen poplar in the village, illuminating the village just falling asleep