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外链地址
http://www.eemp3.com/audiofile/76259a402ab0ae749a8b43fb30dad599.mp3
点击复制A rusted slot a wooden post
Receives the words of those who ghost;
Red leaves protect the humble tin
Where hope and waiting breathe within
No courier collects the mail
Yet every folded thought prevails;
The unread lines become a prayer
That someone’s care still hovers there
I drop one page I’ll never send
Addressed to “Time that will not bend”;
The box replies with hollow sound
As if the earth itself had found
Years later passing I still see
The letters merged with root and tree;
Unopened yet completely heard—
For silence is the gentlest word