夜很深,也很静。浅浅的月光流进了我的村子,挤进了那用牛皮纸蒙住的三扇窗。风轻轻地梳理着窗外还略显单薄的树枝,嗓音很低,却让我听得清楚那来自远方的呼唤。庭院里的那口古井,清楚地倒映着我曾经在井旁的柳树上猴跃的童年。辘轳上那长满黑斑的麻绠,依然牢牢地吊着我的心事,绷得像调紧的弦。 Deep night, very quiet. Shallow moonlight flowed into my village, squeezing into the three windows covered with kraft paper. The wind gently combing the window was slightly thin branches, the voice is very low, but let me hear clearly that call from afar. The ancient well in the courtyard clearly reflected the childhood I had jumped on the willow tree beside the well. The moulder covered with dark spots on the potter’s wheel, still holding my heart firmly, stretched like a tightened string.