空气里散落着遥远的阳光,记忆中的夏天如梦境般走来。芙蓉树凛冽的清香仿佛覆盖了整个城市,诱引着我忘却这个寒冷的季节。上一个季节里,葬着怎样的脚印,遗落了怎样的琴音?走在芙蓉树流动的绿色下,之前的时光拉得很长,像是织成了一张网,无法控制地延伸向远方。音乐轻轻回旋着,所有的嘈杂都被隔离在耳朵之外。闭着眼睛慢慢地沉到那个世界里。想起曾经那些遗落的温暖,心就那么柔软地,蜷缩起来……世界在这样的声响里,渐渐闪耀出了温润的色泽。还有什么样的色彩,可以如此安静地蜷缩在心里,心房是它的温室,隔绝了尘世,安然地呼吸。而空气在这样的温度里,渗透出了像眼泪一样的水分,轻漾在尘埃中。想起一句话:闭上眼睛才能看见最干净的世界。而这时的世界和我们曾经的年华何其相似,干净、温暖、明媚……太多来不及细细琢磨的时刻,重新变得生动起来。有些记忆, 无论记不记得,都是扎在身体或深或浅处的刺,提醒着--回不去的,再也回不去了;到不了的,永远也不会来了……日子盘旋在城市的上空,一点一点地风化着年龄,芙蓉树成了这座城市里我们成长的见证,走过一个季节又一个季节。那些曾经,花开在潮湿的季风里,又溃烂在湿季的雨水中。所有的年华在季节里被浸泡着,带出一片伤感而温热的情绪。是谁说过:年华像是最好的老师,教会所有孤单的孩子不再孤单,教会所有任性的小孩,懂得原谅。时间顺着季节的痕迹漫上脚背,潮水一点一点地高涨,所谓的青春所谓的岁月就这样被渐渐淹没。不知道还要走多远,掌心里蜷伏着时间的车票,地点却在很远的地方。大片的时光如浮云样流过,单薄的年华穿梭在季风里。所有的离去和归来,所有的明媚和黯淡,所有的幸福和泪水……我相信,最后都会以温暖而安详的姿态,定格在我们的记忆里。 The distant sunlight is scattered in the air, and the summer in memory comes as a dream. The fragrant smell of hibiscus trees seems to cover the entire city, tempting me to forget this cold season. In the last season, what kind of footprints were buried and what kind of music was lost? Walking under the green color of the hibiscus tree, the previous time was very long, like a web, which could not be controlled and extended into the distance. . The music swirls gently, and all the noise is isolated from the ears. Slowly sinking into the world with his eyes closed. Remembering the warmth of those fallen ones, the heart was so soft and curled up... The world was gradually shining with warm luster in this kind of sound. What kind of colors can be so quietly huddled in the heart, the atrium is its greenhouse, isolated from the earth, and breathing safely. At this temperature, the air penetrates tear-like moisture and licks it in the dust. Think of a word: Close your eyes to see the cleanest world. At this time, the world is similar to our ever-changing years. It is clean, warm and sunny... It’s too late for too much time to ponder and it becomes vivid again. Some memories, whether they can remember or not, are thorns in the body, deep or shallow, reminding them that they can’t go back, they can’t go back anymore, and those who can’t, never come. Hovering over the city, little by little weathered the age, the hibiscus tree became the witness of our growth in the city, passing a season and another season. Those that used to bloom in the humid monsoon festered in the wet season rain. All the years are soaked in the season, bringing a sad and warm mood. Who said: The age is like the best teacher. All the lonely children in the church are no longer alone. They teach all mannerless children and understand forgiveness. Time traced on the trail of the season, and the tide rose little by little. The so-called years of so-called youth were gradually submerged. I don’t know how far I have to go. The ticket for the palm of my hand is still far away. A large part of the time passes like a cloud of clouds, and the thin years pass through the monsoon. All the departures and return, all the bright and bleak, all the happiness and tears... I believe that in the end we will all set in our memory with a warm and peaceful gesture.