年像淡烟,又像远山的晴岚。我们握不住,也看不到。当它走来的时候,只在我们的心头轻轻地一拂,我们知道:年来了。但是究竟什么是年呢?却没有人能说得清了。当我们沿着一条大路走着的时候,遥望前路茫茫,花样似乎很多。但是,及至走上前去,身临其境,却仍宛如水中扑影,捉到的只有空虚。遥望前路,仍然渺茫得很。此时,我们亦无法回头,因为 Years like light smoke, but also like the distant mountains Qinglan. We can not hold it and we can not see it. When it came, it was only in our hearts that we had a slight stride, and we knew: years. But what exactly is the year? But no one can say it clearly. As we walked along an old road, looking forward to the vast distance, the pattern seems to be a lot. However, up to go, immersive, but still like a play in the water, only to find the emptiness. Looking to the front, still very slim. At this moment, we can not turn back because