就是一个小小的容器,被弃置在茶余饭后的小角落,在很多时尚的话题之外闪烁其词。这谁也倒腾不出诗意的名词,自觉走开。如被悄悄藏起的真实,躲在冠冕堂皇的背后,敲击它,铜钱般脆响,叫人警醒,却不敢联想易碎的梦被硌人的现实弄疼。谁都知道,死都不能丢手的,就是那一只小小的碗。乡村,就靠一只粗瓷大碗的喂养,才存活下瘦小的炊烟,在更迭的游子梦里丰满了村庄的容颜,丰盈成关于一个个家园厚实的历史, Is a small container, abandoned in a little corner of gossip, in a lot of fashion topics flashing. This is who no one can not poetic term, consciously walked away. Hidden behind the sounding realities, such as being hidden quietly, striking it, the coins are ringing and awake, they are afraid to think of the friable dreams that have been hurt by the reality of a man. Everyone knows that death can not be discarded, that is a small bowl. In the village, relying on the feeding of a coarse porcelain bowl, it survived the small smoke, filled the face of the village in the ever-changing wandering dream, and became rich about the thick history of one homeland.