我的脚下,既不是高山,也不是平原。是我古城的江南,遍植一丛丛火焰。将五月举过头顶,为丘陵涂抹春天最后一笔粉彩。绽放的一刹那,宿命中的容颜,照出跌落的香魂。有梨花吹拂雪花,消融。红泥囤积着野火。小鸟们的蛋壳。小叶们的喇叭。或圣女顺手撒下的银器。目光折断的手镯。隔岸听见一阵风过的铃铛声。自己就是前世的药童。捣花成泥,热敷在青盐的伤口。摊开手掌。被碎瓷划过的天空,引白鸽咕咕地呼唤。 My feet are neither mountains nor plains. Is my ancient city of Jiangnan, planted a cluster of Cong flame. Will be held in May over his head, painted the last pastel spring. Blooming moment, the fate of the face, according to the fallen soul. A pear blown snow, ablation. Red mud hoard wildfire. Bird’s eggshell. Leaflets speakers. Or saint sown silverware. Eyes broken bracelet. I heard a burst of bells ringing across the shore. He is a past child’s drug boy. Daocheng mud, hot salt in the wounds of green salt. Spread out the palm of your hand Crossed the sky was broken porcelain, lead a pigeon cuckoo call.