杏花细雨。山风峭厉。杜鹃啼血。依然是那山,那树,那溪流,那屏峰。漫山的雨雾,漫山的杜鹃。在烈士陵园里,又添了一座新坟,那是你的。今天,我来到你的面前,掬一捧褐色的泥土撒向雨帘,撒向填满谷壑的相思。松涛阵阵,似你歌鸣,似我呜咽。年轻的你呀,可闻这松涛依旧,可见我依然紫竹婷婷。记得《雨巷》是你最爱读的诗。为这,你特意给我添了件淡紫色的风衣,似要把我妆成那个结着怨愁的丁香般的姑娘。伫立在空 Apricot flower rain. Winds and strong winds. Cuckoo crowed blood. Still that mountain, that tree, that stream, that screen peak. Diffuse mountains and fog, Manshan rhododendron. In the martyrs cemetery, added a new grave, that is yours. Today, I come to you. I hold a handful of brown earth and scatter rain curtains and scatter Acacia filled with valleys. Songtao bursts, like you singing, it seems to me whimper. You young, you can hear this still loose, we can see that I still Zizhu Tingting. Remember “Rain Lane” is your favorite poem. For this, you deliberately added me with a lavender trench coat, as if to make me the cloak-like girl with a grudge. Standing empty