总是怕那离别,一夜间摇落了一地的花,怕月亮沉在海中便再也不起来,怕这一秒还在身旁,下一秒已是天涯。三毛的书仿佛多得读不尽,可我读了一半就一字也不敢往下读,读完了她的书该多寂寞啊,再也不能跑出来一个三毛写书给我读了,我的生活该多无趣。家中那么多百十年前作家的书却不落目,世界上就一个莫泊桑,一个仓央嘉措,他们讲完了故事,我们就要离别,一本仓央嘉措的诗集在书架上积满了灰也不曾翻动。好像惧怕相遇似的,无法理解作家的淡看离殇,也无法笑看今世离别。相见未曾恨晚, Always afraid of that parting, one night rocked the flowers, afraid of the moon sinking in the sea will never again, afraid of this second still beside, the next second is the horizon. San Mao’s book seems more than enough to read, but I did not dare to read half the word read, read her book more lonely ah, no longer ran out of a San Mao wrote a book for me to read , My life should be more boring. So many hundreds of years ago in the family writer’s book does not stop, the world on a Maupassant, a warehouse Yang Gyatso, they finished the story, we have to leave, a collection of poems on the shelf in the warehouse full Ash has not been turned. Seems to be afraid to meet like, unable to understand the author’s faint look, can not laugh at this age farewell. Meet never hate late,