平原是怎么绿了的,满了的,谁也说不上。好像昨天还是一片寂寞的灰白,望过去眼睛发木、心就空了的那种灰白一直混沌到天涯;好像今早晨还只有一两粒小草拱破荒漠的地面,怯怯地露出针尖似的绿芽芽,料峭的风一吹又缩回去,远非“草色遥看近却无”的景观;好像刚才那啄破蛋壳的鸟儿的羽毛般的树叶儿,还被柔柔的阳光舔着,黄嫩嫩、湿淋淋地抖不开。一转身的工夫,一切全绿了,绿在到处流,在往远处铺,往高里垛。漫长的冬天留下的灰烬、废墟,以及那遍地盐碱屑的残雪,都给这绿轻轻地吞掉了 How green is the plain, and full, no one can say. It seems that yesterday was a lonely greyness. Looking at the past, the kind of grey eyes that sent out wood and the heart was empty had been chaotic to the horizon; as if only one or two small grass arches had broken the desert floor this morning, and the needles had been exposed. The buds of green shoots, and the chilly winds are blown back, are far behind the “grass-colored distant but near-free” landscape; it seems that the feather-like leaves of the bird that broke the shell of the eggshell have also been softened. The sun is shining, yellow is tender and tender, and it’s not shaken. In a turn of time, everything was green, green flowed everywhere, shoped far away, and sailed high. The ashes and ruins left over from the long winter, and the remnants of the salty and salty waste that had been there all the time, gave the green light to swallow it gently.