那年的夏天,我曾到了六朝古都的南京。没有去喧嚣繁华的夫子庙,没有去象征权力的总统府,也没有去拜谒中山陵,更没有去桨声灯影、烟柳繁华的秦淮河,而单单去了南京大屠杀纪念馆。那天的天空乌云密布,阴沉压抑,不时飘落的雨,仿佛是那30万幽灵凄怨哀惋的泪水在天空飞扬,在向游人们诉说着那一段的血雨腥风。 That summer, I went to Nanjing, the ancient capital of the Six Dynasties. Did not go to the bustling Confucius Temple, did not go to the presidential palace to symbolize power, nor to visit the Sun Yat-sen, but did not go to paddle sound, smoke Qinhuai prosperous, and went to the Nanjing Massacre Memorial Hall. That day sky clouds, gloomy depression, falling rain from time to time, as if the ghost of the 300 000 sad sad tears flying in the sky, to tell the tourists that some of the bloody.