那是个悠闲的午后。清在画画,建在喝茶,透亮的阳光,均匀地洒在窗棂上。兰花文竹三叶草,闪着醉媚的光。所有一切,都意足而沉静。是谁先听到了第一声轻响?隐隐约约,如裂帛,如哨音,似任性的晴雯,慢慢扯开了绢扇;似一颗流星,拖着长长的尾巴,渐渐消逝于天际……那是什么声音?清停了画画,建放下茶盏,我也暂歇手头活,三人全侧起了耳朵。是风声,我说。不会吧,风,哪来的风?建 It is a laid-back afternoon. Qing painting, built in tea, translucent sunlight, evenly sprinkled on the window. Orchid text bamboo clover, flashing the beauty of light. All is content and quiet. Who first heard the first sound? Vague, such as cleft silk, such as whistle, like capricious Qingwen, slowly opened a silk fan; like a meteor, dragging the long tail, and gradually fade away In the sky ... ... What is that sound? Stop painting, built under the cup of tea, I also temporarily resumed his hand, three people all ears from the side. It’s the wind, I said. Will not it, the wind, where’s the wind?