梦之门落霞西沉。孤鹜南飞。在梦的丛林,我的背影,像深秋匍匐的月亮,悬在老家最高的东墙之上。而远方的她,却不露声色,牵着秋风,一路飞奔。此刻,只有诗的耳朵,疯狂地在寒夜里冲撞;只有诗的眼睛,像河流越过一个又一个斜坡,在更远的地方,洞察陌路芳踪。岁月积攒的黑褐色泥土,一层一层漫过来,覆盖了我五十六岁的浅薄。在汹涌的世俗中,花瓣似的意愿,被风悠悠负载,飘向未知。 Dream door falling clouds West Shen. Gu Zhi Nan Fei. In the jungle of my dreams, my back is like a creeping moon in the autumn, hanging above the highest east wall of my hometown. The distance she, however, dewless, holding the autumn wind, flew all the way. At this very moment, only the ears of poetry frantically flickered in the cold night; only the poetry eyes, like the rivers, crossed one after another of the slopes, and further beyond them were strangers. Dark brown soil accumulated over the years, layer by layer over, covering my shallow 56-year-old. In turbulent secular world, petal-like will, the wind Yo-yo load, drifting unknown.