父亲的庄稼地,和父亲的皮肤一样,黝黑黝黑的!犹记得孩童时候,在那人工种地的岁月,父亲像一台不会疲倦的永动机,用镰刀收割着那一眼望不到头的小麦,用架子车拉着小山一样的庄稼,汗水滴在和他的皮肤一样黝黑的庄稼地上,我则在后边跟着拾那些掉落的麦穗,那时父亲在我眼里是一座 My father’s crops, like his father’s skin, were dark-skinned! Still remembering children, in that artificial years, his father was like a tireless perpetual motion machine, harvesting the unseen wheat with a sickle, I pulled a hill-like crop with a carriage and sweat dripping onto the dark, dark skin of his skin, and I followed behind to pick up those falling ears when my father was in my eyes