站在季节的边缘,我不敢回头。夜夜笙歌幽幽缭绕,犹如我漂泊的思绪,在异乡的天空流转。城市的星子黯淡了,模糊的半边弯月垂在远初的塔顶,宛若将死的夜莺的歌吟,吐露着满地的忧伤。此刻,我无路可寻。溯回梦起的源头,寻觅不见闪亮的火种。这次的远离,是我今生最大的败笔,无论多少美丽的言辞,都敌不过风花雪月的往事。你明亮的眸子流淌成温煦的季风,从家乡的村口直抵这个城市的腹地,在渐渐沉睡 Standing on the edge of the season, I can not turn back. Flickering night and night, like my wandering thoughts, flow in the sky in a foreign land. City stars dim, fuzzy half-meniscus hanging in the beginning of the tower, like the nightingale of the song of death, revealing the sadness of Montreal. At the moment, I have no way to find. Looking back to the source of dreams, looking for no glittering fire. This far away is the biggest failure of my life, no matter how many beautiful rhetoric, are enemies of past romantic. Your bright eyes flowing into the warm monsoon, straight from the home village entrance to the hinterland of this city, gradually falling asleep