我从山里走来。在那遥远而贫瘠的山区,茫茫的天空下,横卧着几个古老的小村庄。每当夕阳西下,那层层叠叠的山啊,便将一座座小土屋房顶上袅袅的炊烟,将那牛背上牧童悠悠的柳哨声,扯得好远,好远。小时候,父亲常常牵着我的手,走在那坎坷的路上,一路讲着动人的故事……读山,便是读父 I come from the mountain. In the distant and barren mountains, under the vast sky, a few old villages are lying down. Whenever the sun sets, that layers of mountains, they will be a small house on the roof of the curl of smoke, the cow will be back on the long pastoral boy’s whistle, pull well, far. As a child, my father often took my hand and walked in that bumpy road, all the way to tell a touching story ... read the mountain, is to read the father