细雨轻烟,林子在一个惬意的清晨醒来。昨夜的风,没有带走落花,没有折断疏草。这里依然是野水孤村,或许很久以前,这里是文人骚客雅集之处,那藤绕的树枝,那不知名的岩石,那朵朵让人怜爱的花儿,不算妩媚,却很惹眼。我早已听不见雨声,也感觉不到风声,一切都归于宁静,昨夜的梦似乎还在一个人的臂弯里沉睡,没有人会记得,昨日的春花秋月里,有人来过,抑或有人已经走远了。 Light rain, the woods woke up in a pleasant morning. Last night’s wind, did not take away the flowers, not broken off the grass. There is still a wild solitary village here. Perhaps a long time ago, there was a place where the literati’s poet was elegant. The branches of the vine, the unknown rock, the blossoming flower of love and affection were not charming but very eye-catching. I have not heard the rain, but also feel the wind, everything is at peace, last night’s dream seems to still be sleeping in the arms of a person, no one will remember that yesterday’s Spring Flower Moon, someone came, or some people have been Go far.