四季的歌

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不管生活怎样

我们健健康康地活着

活着

也许七十,也许八十

也许九十,也许一个世纪


世事可能还有趣,可能无聊透顶

等你活到七老八十

少了朋友和亲人

而春的花,夏的雨

秋的色,冬之雪


依旧是

孩童时的模样

我们的面孔

皱缩成榆树之老皮

心底之宁静亦如夏夜之星


没有什么故事

需要再去讲述

当夏雨滴落

当秋叶飘零

我们,化为一首四季的歌......

2012.08.24

 She stepped into the room, put her handbag on the floor.

He didn’t sit up, just stayed there, lying on the bed, an old man,

his stomach bulging like a sack of sunflower seeds. His blue eyes

watched her as she walked to him, and the room was filled with

the quietness of afternoon sunlight. It fell through the window,

across the rocking chair, hit broadside the wallpaper with its

brightness. The mahogany bed knobs shone. Through the

curved-out window was the blue of the sky, the bayberry bush,

the stone wall. The silence of this sunshine, of the world, seemed

to fold over Olive with a shiver of ghastliness, as she stood feeling

the sun on her bare wrist. She watched him, looked away, looked

at him again. To sit down beside him would be to close her eyes

to the gaping loneliness of this sunlit world.

—Elizabeth Strout: Olive Kitteridge

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