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明知思念是件苦事,可人们常情不能自禁;明知思念是件苦事,可人们偏定出一个节日勾起人的思念。远处深黛色的山的影,仿佛给深蓝的天空镶上一道参差不齐的朦胧的锦边。空中的那颗夜明珠,是月,但却不是被那历代文人墨客所吟诵的十五的月。不知这叫不叫赏月,我只是浴着月光漫步。不时微笑,那是回忆萦绕在心间;不时轻(?),那是思念不愿离开失意的我;不时举头望月,那是……月光淡淡的,只是如薄纱一般轻覆在树上、花上、我的身上、我的心间。那薄纱的质地是那样轻柔,那样细弱,以至我不敢举手,不敢抬头,不敢
Knowing that thinking is a bitter thing, but people can’t help themselves; knowing that thinking is a bitter thing, but people are biased to make a holiday to remind people of thoughts. The shadow of the distant deep-colored mountains seems to inscribe a dark blue sky with a jagged edge. The luminous pearl in the sky is the month, but it is not the month of the fifteenth century that the literators of the ancient dynasty saw. I do not know this is not called the moon, I just walk in the moonlight. From time to time, smiling, it is memories that linger in my heart; light (?) from time to time. It is me who is not willing to leave the frustration. From time to time, I look up at the moon. It is... The moonlight is faint. It is just like a thin gauze. Flowers, my body, my heart. The texture of the gauze is so soft and so thin that I dare not raise my hand and dare not look up.