詩(shī)人的腳步，注定要走過(guò)春夏秋冬破讨，去往那遙遠(yuǎn)的第五季丛晦。
人生看來(lái)很簡(jiǎn)單，卻很難說(shuō)“喜歡”或“不喜歡”提陶。
六十年買了烫沙、讀了不少書(shū)，有幾本是讀了還想讀隙笆？有幾本常伴身邊锌蓄，沒(méi)事就拿出來(lái)讀？有幾本是在生命的不同階段給我感悟撑柔、啟發(fā)瘸爽，給我反省、思考的铅忿？
真的把《老子》剪决、《論語(yǔ)》、《莊子》、《詩(shī)經(jīng)》……當(dāng)成經(jīng)典在讀昼捍？识虚！面對(duì)壹快快即將消失的麥地，我的當(dāng)務(wù)之急是什麼妒茬？
六十年我發(fā)現(xiàn)生命是壹首情詩(shī)担锤，所以我寫(xiě)詩(shī)！每壹次拿筆我都陷入恐慌乍钻，這怎麼寫(xiě)案匮？我和黃土地說(shuō)什麼都是多余银择《嗫罚可能我並不懂妳。我在詩(shī)歌裏壹點(diǎn)壹滴發(fā)現(xiàn)著逝去的生命浩考，每天讀幾句夹孔，寫(xiě)幾行並不為了。析孽。搭伤。只是尋回再也不能觸摸的生命純真。讀著袜瞬，寫(xiě)著怜俐，時(shí)間就這樣慢慢流逝。置身於此邓尤，真想就這樣只聞花香拍鲤，不談悲喜，喝茶讀書(shū)汞扎，不爭(zhēng)朝夕季稳。從經(jīng)濟(jì)上著眼，詩(shī)歌寫(xiě)作完全失敗澈魄，沒(méi)出過(guò)壹本詩(shī)集绞幌，更不要說(shuō)賣。
活著一忱，因?yàn)榻裉爝€可以寫(xiě)莲蜘。仿佛時(shí)間就此停滯，只剩下自己的心跳聲帘营。它代表的是壹個(gè)農(nóng)人票渠、汗水、麥地芬迄，以及在這塊土地上所生長(zhǎng)孕育的生命问顷。。。麥地消失了杜窄，留下來(lái)的只有壹個(gè)農(nóng)耕夢(mèng)肠骆，壹株神秘的麥穗，壹個(gè)不死的靈魂塞耕。我對(duì)土地的感情蚀腿，是壹個(gè)失親的孤兒在尋找母親。麥地會(huì)讓我產(chǎn)生壹種沖動(dòng)扫外，壹種要去捕捉什麼東西的興奮莉钙，壹種迷失之後的清醒：在金錢滲透壹切的今天，知道自己還缺少什麼筛谚，這缺少的必定不是物質(zhì)上的磁玉，更多的是精神上的。
如果條件允許驾讲，日後的我想有壹畝自己的農(nóng)耕地蚊伞，壹間鄉(xiāng)間小屋，白天躬耕吮铭；夜晚來(lái)杯熱茶时迫，放點(diǎn)輕音樂(lè)，讀幾頁(yè)書(shū)沐兵。。便监。書(shū)扎谎、茶、音樂(lè)烧董、還有自己毁靶。書(shū)，依然在讀逊移。茶预吆，依然在喝。歌胳泉，依然在聽(tīng)拐叉。詩(shī)，依然在寫(xiě)扇商。我寫(xiě)的不只是小詩(shī)凤瘦，而是壹生的靜謐時(shí)光。
黃土讓我懂得什麼是善良案铺、仁慈和堅(jiān)忍蔬芥，我慶幸自己是壹個(gè)農(nóng)人，沒(méi)有人懷疑過(guò)土地給我們的生命，它有壹雙看不見(jiàn)的手笔诵，移挪著我們的乾坤返吻。我們卻不知敬畏和尊重，不知土地的元?dú)舛柬樦牟缈谂芰撕跣觥Ｔ?shī)歌是從泥土裏生長(zhǎng)出來(lái)的樹(shù)测僵，老槐以手勢(shì)，作別次酌，如果妳壹定要問(wèn)我最後壹個(gè)問(wèn)題恨课，我會(huì)回答：愛(ài)過(guò)！
再壹次從頭開(kāi)始岳服。剂公。。希望自己是壹雙眼睛吊宋，看到別人看不到的麥地纲辽。透過(guò)麥地實(shí)實(shí)在在的風(fēng)景，讓靈魂穿越這些表面的風(fēng)景璃搜，看到風(fēng)景背後的深邃和內(nèi)蘊(yùn)拖吼。通過(guò)麥地、大樹(shù)和外部的世界建立起壹種1：1的關(guān)系这吻。麥地的秘密很難在大都市裏尋找得到吊档。看到麥地在夕陽(yáng)照射下觸目驚心地呈現(xiàn)豬血般殷紅唾糯，令人不可思議地看見(jiàn)地邊的大槐樹(shù)壹天天老去怠硼。
我用壹生在麥地：壹個(gè)詩(shī)人的農(nóng)耕夢(mèng)。聽(tīng)春雨潤(rùn)物麥苗返青拔節(jié)收獲的汗水農(nóng)人的哭泣移怯，寫(xiě)那些不能寫(xiě)和別人不願(yuàn)寫(xiě)的東西香璃，我?guī)缀蹩梢愿杏X(jué)到土地被掠奪後幹癟乳房擠出的最後壹滴血，在雨後荒蕪的雜草中嗅到空氣中的腐敗土腥舟误。葡秒。。
感謝懂得嵌溢！也許有壹天眯牧，我會(huì)。赖草。炸站。但永遠(yuǎn)不會(huì)忘記腳下的土地。只要我還有記憶疚顷，胸口都會(huì)勇起壹股暖熱旱易，用最後壹滴血壹字壹句敲擊禁偎，夕陽(yáng)西下，天邊的凝紅阀坏，我依然能聽(tīng)到耕種的聲音如暖。
2015年元月1日零點(diǎn)合肥
The horizon of coagulation red
Thehorizon of coagulation red
(sequence)
Thepoet's footsteps, doomed to walk through spring, summer, autumn and winter, goto the distant fifth season.
Lifeseems very simple, but it's hard to say "like" or"dislike".
Sixtyyears bought, read many books, some are reading would also like to read? A fewthis constant companion, ok take out? Some is in the different stages of lifegive me feeling, inspired, reflection, thinking to me?
Reallythe "Lao zi", "the analects", "zhuang zi", thebook of songs... As a classic reading? ! In the face of one disappear quicklywheat, my priority is?
Sixtyyears I found life is one love poems, so I write poetry! Every one pen I panic,how to write it? And I said what background are redundant. May be I don'tunderstand you. I found one drops in the one in the poem with the loss of life,every day to read a few words, write a few lines not to... Just found no touchof pure life. Read, write, time passed slowly, just like that. In this, reallywant to like this only to smell flowers, don't talk about feeling, tea reading,morning and night does not dispute. The eye from the economy, the poetrywriting completely failed, no one book of poetry, let alone to sell.
Live,because today can also be written. As if time shuts down, only their own heartbeat. It represents the calendar one farmer, sweat, wheat, and growth in thisland breeds of life... Wheat disappeared, left only one farming is a dream, onestrain of the mystery of the grain, have an immortal soul. My feelings on the land,it is a loss of the orphans in the search for the mother. Wheat can produce onekind of impulse, let me have the excitement that is going to capture anything,one kind of lost after awake: in today's money penetrate one cut, know oneselfstill lack what, this lack of must not material, is more of a spiritual.
Ifthe condition allows, in the future I want to have one mu of farmland, betweenone country cottage, put his ideas into the day; Night a cup of hot tea, put onsome soft music, read a few pages... Books, tea, music, and yourself. Book,still reading. Tea, is still in the drink. Listen, it is still in. Poems, stillin writing. I write is not just a small poem, but one of quiet time.
Loesslet me know what is goodness, kindness and patience, I am glad I am a farmer,the no one doubted land to our lives, it has one pair of the invisible hand,move move our fortunes around. We don't know the fear and respect, do not knowthe land from all along the desire of stubbles and ran away. Poetry comes fromthe soil to grow a tree, acacia with gestures, goodbye, if you set you wouldlike to ask my last question, I will answer: love!
Onemore time to start from scratch... Want to be one pairs of eyes, see the otherscan't see the wheat field. Through wheat real scenery, scenery, let the soulthrough the surface to see the scenery behind the depth and implication.Through wheat, established one kind of the tree and the outside world a 1:1relationship. It is difficult to in the big city to find the secret of wheat. Seewheat under the setting sun exposure to render the pig blood deep red,incredibly to see juggle large pagoda tree one day old.
Iuse the one born in wheat: one farming the dream of a poet. Listen to the rainsmooth wheat seeding root harvest sweat the cries of the farmers, jointingstage and writing those can't write, and others don't want to write something,I can almost feel the land looted after dry out the last one drop of blood,breast in corruption in wild weeds smell in the air after the rain the soilxing...
Thanksto understand! Maybe one day, I will... But never forget at the foot of theland. As long as I still have memories, chest will courage one strands of warm,with one sentence on the last one drop of one word, the sun sets, the sky of thecondensate is red, I can still hear the sound of the farming.
OnJanuary 1, 2015 zero in hefei
oman"'>合肥
