10月19日已到了,蓦然回首,鲁迅先生已经逝世67年。从傍晚到子夜,静静地,一个人静坐窗前,任冷雨打着窗棂;灯下一盒吊兰淡淡地涂抹一壁翠色书柜;夜风荡起,身上微微泛起寒意。想起了鲁迅先生,泪水就滑落下来。“67年了,先生已经去了67年了……”夜雨淅沥,灯色愈照愈昏黄。 October 19 has arrived and I suddenly look back. Mr. Lu Xun has died for 67 years. From the evening to the midnight, quietly, a man sat quietly in front of the window, letting the cold rain hit the window; the next light of the lamp was smeared with a wall of bookcases; the night breeze swayed, and the body chilled slightly. Mr. Lu Xun was reminded of the tears slipped. “67 years, Mr. has gone 67 years ... ...” "The rain is falling and the light is getting darker.