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朦胧的远山,笼罩着一层轻纱,影影绰绰,在飘渺的云烟中忽远忽近,若即若离。就像是几笔淡墨,抹在蓝色的天边。山虽无言,然非无声。那潺潺而流的河,是它优美的琴声倾诉;那汩汩而涌的泉,是它靓丽的歌喉展示;那怒吼的松涛,是山对肆虐狂风之抗议;那清脆的滴嗒,是山对流逝岁月的铭记。山水之间孕育的人们,有着最自然的气息,在他们诚挚的脸庞上,总能看见对生活最质朴的期许。
Obscure mountains, shrouded in a layer of gauze, Ying Yingchao, in the misty clouds smoke suddenly far and near, if away from home. Like a few light ink, wiping the blue sky. Mountain silent, but non-silent. The gurgling river is its graceful piano voice; the whirling spring is its beautiful voice show; the roaring pine is the mountain’s protest against the raging wind; the crisp drip is the mountain Remember the passage of time. People born between landscapes, with the most natural flavor, in their sincere face, always see the most rustic expectations of life.