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田垄是金属的 而他们佝偻的姿势
被铐着 泥土的柔韧像一种鼓励
像一组埋进肉里的 不会弄错的号码
返回每年清明灌浆的 被征集的颜色
也有田园的风味 渴的风味
他们蹲在井台上的茫然 镶着田鼠
和鹌鹑 一首地平线一样近乎色盲的诗
仍在收缩 一排绿色栅栏锁着呼吸
延伸到天边 分蘖的晚霞仍黝黑
而无辞 活 监禁在一次静静的咀嚼里
端着的粗瓷碗 平衡上了妆的岁月
什么也不意味 连绿色的填空游戏
也不意味 揩着啐到脸上的一声喝斥
the field tracks were metallic     but these people’s rickety stance
handcuffed     the mud’s flexibility like encouragement
their naked backs glued to the knife-shaped maize leaves
and ribs each year another shade of glossy green
like a set of numbers buried  inside the flesh     that mustn’t be mistaken
an acrid blood group escorting ears of grain
returned to the levied colours     grouted in by each year’s Grave-Sweeping Day
everywhere the sound of jointing crops reciting their prison term
with the flavour of the fields and gardens     the flavour of thirst
commanding the well to fall endlessly into zero’s depth
their vastness squatting by the wellhead     mounting quail
and voles     a near-colour-blind poem the same as the skyline
they couldn’t see the womb’s curse
still contracting     a line of green fences locking in breath
stretch to the horizon     suckering sunsets still swarthy
and wordless     life     imprisoned in a silent rumination
coarse china bowls held in both hands     balanced the rouged and painted years
not meaning anything     not even the game of filling in the green blanks
had any meaning     wiping the spittle of denunciation from their faces
they conscientiously wiped the plough clean