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中午,岸边吃饭喝咖啡的人们蜷缩着躲在五光十色的阳伞下,无奈又饶有趣味地看着细碎的雨丝随风飘入。海鸥成群结队地徘徊在四周,落在白色的栏杆上,窥探着可以从残羹冷炙中偷抢到的食物。太阳一忽儿把亮晃晃的光线豪爽地洒在桌盘上,一忽儿又吝啬地收回,只透过轻薄的云朵发出蒙蒙的柔光,任人们的视线绝望地追随。视线在还没有彻底没入烟雨中之前,会被一个贝壳状的曲面建筑挡住。它有一种魔力,能把视线中所有的绝望吸走。这个建筑,就是悉尼歌剧院。
At noon, people who eat and drink coffee on the bank curled up and hid under colorful umbrellas, but helplessly looked at the broken rain drifting into the wind. Seagulls hovering in droves surrounded by white railing, snooping on the food that can be snatched from the scruff of the shabby chunk. Suddenly the sun shone bright and shining light onto the table, suddenly and again stubbornly recovered, only through the faint clouds of soft light, let the people’s eyes follow desperately. The line of sight is blocked by a shell-like curved building before it’s completely submerged in the misty rain. It has a magic that sucks all the despair in sight. This building is Sydney Opera House.