她是一首朴实平华的诗，一生走过的路被一字一句地印在了纸上，微风轻拂，褶皱的纸张笨拙地摇曳，再用手指指着一行细读，她的温暖又一次流进我的心窝。
She is a simple and plain poem, and the path she has taken in her life is printed word by word on paper. The gentle breeze sways the wrinkled paper awkwardly, and then she points to a line with her fingers and reads it carefully. Her warmth once again flows into my heart.
我的奶奶是一首晦涩的诗。她时常哀叹家里的后辈不争气，又时常因一些小事而自豪，她喜怒无常，甚至有时会为了我爷爷多吃了一口糖分高的菜而破口大骂，最后，一顿和谐的晚餐不欢而散。后来，我无意间瞥见她躲在厨房，轻轻地擦去眼泪，还不忘张望四周，一生要面子的她，让她的好意、她的温暖被层层隔绝起来，有时从柔软的内心流出，又化作坚锐的利剑。来源 wwW.ZUowEnbA.nET
My grandmother is an obscure poem. She often laments that the younger generation in the family is not up to par, but also takes pride in small things. She is capricious and sometimes even curses my grandfather for eating a high sugar dish. In the end, a harmonious dinner ends unhappily. Later, I accidentally caught a glimpse of her hiding in the kitchen, gently wiping away her tears and not forgetting to look around. She, who valued face for a lifetime, had her kindness and warmth isolated layer by layer, sometimes flowing from her soft heart and turning into a sharp sword.
我的奶奶还是一首细腻的诗。诗句的字里行间藏不住的温暖，细水长流般流淌出来。我睡醒时拉好的被角，我晚回家时还未动筷的饭菜，我挑灯夜读时还温热的水壶，无一不贯穿着我的生活，捂热我的心窝，有时热泪盈眶。
My grandmother is still a delicate poem. The warmth that cannot be hidden between the lines of the poem flows like a continuous stream. The quilt I pulled up when I woke up, the food I didn't eat when I came home late at night, the kettle that was still warm when I stayed up late to read, all run through my life, warming my heart and sometimes tears welling up in my eyes.
我的奶奶也是一首欢快的诗。我早晨睡醒时常听见她爽朗的笑声，她的兄弟姐妹、朋友很多，但有什么好消息或是幽默的笑话，她都急着第一时同分享给我。在她染病时，还躺在床上笑着对我说她的身体真是弱不禁风。尽管难受，她还是艰难地从床上起来，一步一步走向厨房，不让我们靠近搀扶她。她点火开始做饭，还笑着打趣道：“我还能做饭呢。”
My grandmother is also a cheerful poem. I often hear her cheerful laughter when I wake up in the morning. She has many brothers, sisters and friends. But if there is any good news or humorous jokes, she is eager to share them with me at the first time. When she fell ill, she was lying in bed laughing and telling me that her body was really fragile. Despite the discomfort, she struggled to get out of bed and walked step by step towards the kitchen, not letting us get close to help her. She lit the fire and started cooking, jokingly saying, "I can still cook
我的奶奶是一首陈旧的诗，犹如纸张早已泛黄，褶皱再也抚不平，只能一点一点、慢慢地细读，词句间却还生动、有趣。她虽早已不再年轻，再也不能用她瘦小而温暖的手牵起我远行，却还是起夜将我的被子盖好，过饭点却还不舍得动一下饭菜，困意袭来却还是去盖好保温瓶的瓶盖。这些我看不到的、看得到的、感动的、习以为常的点滴，都化作暖流，滋润我的心窝。
My grandmother is an old poem, like paper that has already turned yellow, wrinkles no longer smooth, can only be read slowly and meticulously, but the words and phrases are still vivid and interesting. Although she is no longer young and can no longer hold me on a long journey with her thin and warm hands, she still wakes up at night to cover my blanket. After dinner, she is reluctant to touch the food, and when drowsiness strikes, she still goes to cover the cap of the thermos. These little things that I cannot see, see, move, and take for granted have all turned into warm currents, nourishing my heart.
等我再拉起她的手，走在夕阳下，那一长一短的影子，长的是我的影子，短的是奶奶的影子，温暖如诗。
When I hold her hand again and walk under the sunset, those long and short shadows, the long one is my shadow, the short one is my grandmother's shadow, warm and poetic.