寂静的寺院,甚至比寂静本身更加寂静。阳光打在上面,沉浸在漫长回忆中的时光的大钟,仍旧没有醒来,对面山坡上一只鸟的啼叫,显得既遥远又空洞。一个从空地上缓缓移过的红衣喇嘛,拖曳在地的袍襟,并没有带来半点风声。而只是带走了一块抹布大小的生锈的阴影,俭朴的僧舍,传达着原木和褐黑泥土本来的清香。四周花草的嘶叫,被空气一层层过滤后,又清晰地进入一只昏昏欲睡的甲壳虫的听觉。辉煌的金顶,就浮在这一片寂静 The still monastery is even more silent than the silence itself. The clock of the sunshine hitting above, the hour of immersion in the long memory, still did not wake up, and the cry of a bird on the opposite hillside seemed both distant and empty. A red lama, slowly moving from the open space, did not bring the slightest noise to the draped placket on the ground. But only took a rusty shadow of a rag size, frugal shag, to convey the original fragrance of logs and brown earth. Screams around the flowers, the air layer by layer filter, but also clearly into a drowsy Beatles auditory. Brilliant Golden Summit, floating in this piece of silence