他穿白色衬衫,戴缀着白色丝边的帽子。嘴角上扬,眼神温暖。在一个深夜里,柔和的灯光下,我对着一本很久的书,和他久久对视。他,顾城,安静地和我对视。相视无言。凝视顾城,凝视他隐喻的情感,凝视他的一颗透明纯净的心。顾城的诗歌是干净的,如深山里的一泓清泉,又如万顷岩石上的一抹绿色,让人不忍打扰,只能远远观望。羡慕,抒情,感叹。而后转身。而他的心就如他的诗歌一样是干净纯净的。他相信读者,便为他们掏心掏肺;他向往美好的爱情,为之不顾一切,正如他所写:她永远看着我,永远,看着,绝不会忽然转过头去。顾 He wore a white shirt and a hat with white silk edges. Mouth up, eyes warm. In a late night, soft light, I was facing a long book, and his long time on the scene. He, Gu Cheng, quietly with me. Phase as speechless. Staring Gu Cheng, staring at his metaphorical emotion, staring at him a transparent pure heart. Gucheng’s poetry is clean, such as a clear spring in the mountains, another million green rocks on the rocks, people could not bear to disturb, can only wait and see. Envy, lyrical, sigh. Then turn around. His heart is as clean and pure as his poetry. He believed the readers, they dig their hearts and lungs; his longing for good love, desperate, as he wrote: She will always look at me, forever, looking, will not suddenly turned away. Gu