水韵古巷,青砖黛瓦,霁月清风,一盏油灯,手捧着辞赋书卷儿,嘴畔笑意渐显,书痴啊,书痴,痴。恍惚一梦,夜间听漏,漏尽更残,失意仿佛没有尽头,氤氲迷闬中不见曙色。雨轻打石阶,寂静里谁的心在无声紧缩?一阵阵擂鼓般、敲得钝痛的闷响,那样的震动里深藏在心深处的痛,悄悄涌来,扭紧,痉挛。夜风轻缓,飞花零落,这个凉薄的夜,谁又能体味流落异乡,沦为人质,痛失家园,亡国的那般痛 Shui Yun Gu Xiang, blue brick Daiwa, 霁 moon breeze, an oil lamp, hand holding the book Fu Han children, mouth smile gradually, bookworms ah, bookworm, crazy. Trance dream, leak at night, leak even more residual, frustration seems to have no end, no confusion in the darkness. Rain and light stone steps, who silent in the silence in the heart tingling? Waves of drumming, knock dull ache muffled, so deep inside the shock of the pain, quietly, tightening, twitching. Night breeze gentle, flying scattered, this cool night, who can experience exotic, hostage, lost their homes, the country so painful