我懷想著故鄉的雷聲和雨聲。那隆隆的有力的搏擊，從山谷返響到山谷，仿佛春之芽就從凍土里震動，驚醒，而怒茁出來。細草樣柔的雨聲又以溫存之手撫摩它，使它簇生油綠的枝葉而開出紅色的花。這些懷想如鄉愁一樣縈繞得使我憂郁了。我心里的氣候也和這北方大陸一樣缺少雨量，一滴溫柔的淚在我枯澀的眼里，如遲疑在這陰沉的天空里的雨點，久不落下。
I thought of the sound of thunder and rain in my hometown. Over there. whenever the violent rumble of thunder reverberated across the valley, the buds of spring would seem to sprout freely after being disturbed and roused up from their slumber in the frozen soil. Then tenderly stroked by the soft hands of fine rain, they would put forth bright green leaves and red flowers. It makes me nostalgic and melancholy to think about the old times and my mind that is as depressed as the vast expanse of North China is thirsty. A tear stands in my dull eye and, like the rain lingering in the murky sky. is slow to roll down.
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