水桶木质的水桶,悬挂在我十三岁的童年,平夜里装着两桶月光,守候在大山的伤口。等待一点点挤出乡村的血液,然后挑着半桶喘息,叮咚叮咚地响在山路上。多年以后,我在记忆的枯井里捞起水桶,它早已渴死成灶膛的灰烬,我在水龙头上拧了一下,泪水就哗哗地流出来。 Bucket wooden bucket, hanging in my thirteen year old boy, loaded with two barrels of moonlight in the night, waiting in the mountains wounds. Waiting for a little bit out of the village of blood, and then lug a half-barrel respite, ding dong ding dong rang in the mountain. Years later, I picked up the bucket in the memory of the dry well, it had long been thirsty ashes, I screwed a bit on the tap, tears flowed out rushing.