村庄井台边结了一层白霜。我的白发母亲,颤巍巍地拎着一桶水,衍出的晨光,有些蹒跚……破碎。黑子跟前跟后,像她的孙子。荒芜了的菜园,被一圈栅栏围着。瓦屋边,几只老母鸡,争抢着,一堆粪土下的温暖。栏里的老牛,悠闲地反刍着最后的时光。只是院边的老桑树,落满了阳光的灰尘。似乎腰比去年更圆了。镰刀的锋刃越来越宽阔一群赶往麦田的麻雀,它们留下的空旷,被一声扯长的吆喝填充。 The village platform edge knot a layer of hoar frost. My white-haired mother, trembling with a bucket of water, the morning glory, some hobble ... broken. Sunspots followed, like her grandson. Barren garden, surrounded by a fence. Tile house edge, a few old hens, fighting for a bunch of dirt under the warmth. Columns in the bar, leisurely rumored the last time. Only the courtyard of the old Mulberry, covered with the sun’s dust. It seems that the waist is more round than last year. Sickle blade more and more broad edge of a group of sparrows rushed to the wheat fields, they left open, was a cry of crap filling.