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最后这滴圣水至洁一滴,隐在时间的终结。之后,灯花将在风中凋谢,连同无奈的体温。所有光线,都不重要。死神,乐意用泪光编织蓑衣。闪烁在暗夜的水声,吻合条条金丝的阴纹。那会儿,全被时间利刃,削成一地暗影。世界,仅剩一滴眼泪。最北的静海,这粒活着的盐,如何,都不肯淡去。冥冥中,视野宽了,穹窿圆了。传说中,天穹升高,预言就会灵验。陶罐内,最后这滴圣水,擎一粒两半的银珠,半粒种在眼神,半粒播进心灵——好让星星之火,开满生命的走廊……
The last drop of holy water to a clean, hidden at the end of time. Afterwards, the lanterns will wither in the wind, together with helpless body temperature. All light is not important. Death, happy to weave 蓑 clothing with tears. Flashing sound of water in the dark night, match the strip of gold wire shade. That moment, all the time cutting edge, shaved into a shadow. The world, only a tear. The most northern Jinghai, this living salt, how, are not willing to fade. Somewhere, wide field of vision, round dome round. In the legend, the sky rises, and prophecy will be learned. In the jar, the last drop of holy water, engineered a two-and-a-half silver bead, half of the seeds in the eyes, half a grain of soul - so that the spark of fire, a living corridor ...