一个人的夜晚,我的思绪常常从村庄开始。茅草、镰刀、乌鸦和月亮,一叶瓦,半块砖,数缕轻薄的寒烟,几棵擎天的大树,那里栖满了我心灵的诗意。多年之后,当我在某一个城市冬天的黄昏里独倚栏杆眺望西北故乡的方向,我的睫毛被从故乡赶来的雪 One person’s night, my thoughts often start from the village. Thatched grass, sickles, crows, and the moon, a leaf tile, a half brick, a few thin smokes, a few tall trees, where the mystery of poetry filled my heart. Many years later, when I was leaning in the direction of the hometown of the Northwest in a winter dusk in a city, my eyelashes were snow from my hometown.