苍穹还在诉说,明月在头顶照着,路上只有一些急着回家的人。扶摇卷走连绵的山脉和它膨胀的欲念,就剩一缕冷风在破旧的行程中朗诵,听众不是人类,是道旁的青草和碎石。历史有些发黄,而记忆,越发历久弥新。阅读往日的风景,幸福有些无伤带血,染病了你躬身耕种的春天。 The sky is still to tell that the moon shines on the head, there are only some people hurrying home. Roll over the rolling mountains and swell their desires, left a ray of cold in the shabby journey recite, the audience is not human, is the road next to the grass and gravel. Some history of yellow, and memory, more lasting renewal. Read the scenery of the past, some happy and bloody, sick you bend farming spring.