沙粒也激荡风暴,纯净沙粒,结晶诗音。喊我们在阳光底下扯破嗓门,嗓门挨着草丛,挨着树叶,它们都像流云的金子。再往深处喊,挨近一群羊,把嗓门贴在它们的眼睛。暗合白色,它们眼睛流动的金子,是一曲诉说不尽的春风谣。依旧波浪一般,翻滚。父亲喊羊,喊出了自己的身体, Grit is also agitation storm, pure sand, crystal poetry sound. Shout us to torn the voice in the sunshine, his voice next to the grass, next to the leaves, they are like clouds of gold. Shout to the depths again and approach a flock of sheep, sticking their voice to their eyes. Concealed white, their eyes flowing gold, is an endless stream of spring rumors. Still wavy, tumbling. My father shouted sheep, shouted his own body,