他正在转身,转得有些艰难,瘸了的左腿把身体歪向一边,他扶着右边的胯立稳了,朝着身后的寺庙望了一眼,秋天的风扑过来,也许带来一点沙尘,前面不远处是一片沙土地,瓜秧子胡乱贴在地上,风显然迷了他的眼,他举起袖子揉了揉,又揉了揉,朝西走了。那座高矗在寺庙顶上的旗杆,在他的身影下,慢慢矮下去,矮到看不见。 He was turning around and turning a bit harder. The lame left leg twisted his body to the side. He leaned to his right temple and glanced at the temple behind him. The fall of the wind might bring a bit of sand Dust, not far in front of a piece of sand, melon seedlings sticking on the ground casually, the wind apparently blurred his eyes, he raised his sleeve rubbed his knees, and rubbed, westward away. The tall pole in the temple on the flagpole, in his shadow, slowly dwarfed, short to the invisible.