一辆黑色小轿车,载着你,幽灵般从一个小山村缓缓驶出。途经我们曾经走过无数遍的山野、小溪,来到县城。我在十字街口候你,手捧花篮,夏晨的风清凉,我却感到了寒意。你白发苍苍的老父坐在车窗口,消瘦的面容比我想象的平静。也许泪早已哭干,也许大悲后情感归于 A black car carrying you, ghostly slowly from a small village out. Through the countless times we have traveled the mountains, streams, came to the county. When I was waiting for you at Crossroads, holding a flower basket, the cool summer morning wind, I feel chill. Your white-haired father sat in the window of the car, wasting more calming than I thought. May tears cry already dry, perhaps after the great compassion attributed