昔日的猎枪,化作今日的钢笔。他对着洁白的如同白天鹅羽毛般的本子,写下自己最深沉的思念和懊悔。他把曾经听白天鹅唱歌的那段时光,当作最宝贵的回忆。洁白的羽毛,如冬日里飘扬的雪花。无尽的纯洁与清澈,却又泛着一丝光泽,与天空中的云朵相媲美。如果天空因为有云而精彩,那么湖水因为有她而自豪。她是一只高傲的白天鹅,昂着头,拍打着吸水的双翅,在湖的中心滑向岸边,激起阵阵水花,转着圈,在水中演绎属于自己的童话。 The old shotgun, into today’s pen. He wrote his deepest thoughts and regrets in his white, swan feathery book. He used to listen to the white swan singing that time, as the most precious memories. White feathers, such as snow flying in winter. Endless purity and clarity, but glowing with a glow, comparable with the clouds in the sky. If the sky is wonderful because of the clouds, then the lake is proud of her. She is a proud white swan, head bulging, flapping its suction wings, sliding to the shore in the center of the lake, stirred up the water, turn the circle, in the water to deduce their own fairy tale.