Uncle and nephew, one behind the other,
wade the field of rapeflowers, birdsong
like silk thread drawing through their hearts.
The blaze of ghost money
so big they step back.
Heading home,
they slice mud from their shoes with a shovel.
Villagers watch at a distance—
Whose sons are these,
come to visit graves?
PoemWiki 评分
暂无评论 写评论