凄凄惨惨的天,丝丝缕缕的雨。我淋着雨,溅着泥,立在他的坟前。钱纸的余烟被雨滴打散,米酒的醇香从那数十个土堆旁传来。那是他用来浇愁的酒。在那个战火纷飞的年代,43个青年满腔热血,喝了一口米酒,砸了陶碗,出了乡关,打遍了近乎半个中国。其中就有我外公——那个以知识分子身 Miserable days, fishes strands of rain. I was raining, splashing mud, standing in front of his grave. The remaining paper money was scattered by the raindrops, the mellow wine from the dozens of mounds next to it. That is the wine he used to pour sorrow In that era of war-torn warfare, 43 youths were passionate, drank a glass of rice wine, smashed the pottery bowls, out of the township customs, and practiced nearly half of China. Among them is my grandfather - the one who is an intellectual