夜听汪峰歌声低回,却似一支支利箭,扎在心上,摇曳不停。一定是流血了,喉管里腥咸潮涌。在风寒突袭中,耳廓塞满夜的哭泣。我曾经祈求晴朗的白昼,那是爸爸难得一露的笑脸,掌心的光亮刚要攥紧,雷电咆哮而至,又是一场滂沱大雨。我习惯在黑暗里下潜,一杯又一杯,独饮如水的月色,直到思绪烂醉如泥。我不敢回想,那间小屋,以缭绕的烟雾酒气,阻断亲情。咣当作响的碗勺,俨然一个老人的孤独歌谣。爸爸,不再有机会这样叫您的时候,我的 Night listening to Wang Feng song low back, but it seems like a support arrow, tied in the heart, swaying non-stop. Must be bleeding, the throat salty Chung surging. In the cold raid, ear plugs cry all night. I have prayed for a clear day, it is a rare smiling face of my father, palm just bright enough clenched light, thunder and lightning roared, but also a torrential rains. I used to dive in the darkness, cup after cup, soliloquy water moon, until my thoughts pickled. I can not think back, that hut, smoke filled with smoke alcohol, blocking affection.咣 sounding bowl of spoon, just like an old man’s solitary songs. Dad, no longer have a chance to call you this way, mine