翻阅历史的线装书,岁月将它装订得极为拙劣。书中一页薛涛笺飘落,荡起周围那浓重的腐朽气息,拭去历史的尘埃,一幕幕明帧模糊不了那些瘦弱的身影。长安三月三的烟雨在空气里腾起氤氲,一轮皓月悄悄爬上苏州的柳梢头,泅成一脉雅韵,王维的等待瘦成一叶诗句。面对佞臣当道,昏君乱世,他坚守心灵的高地,或倚风长啸,或策马扬 Looking through the history of the line-bound book, the years have bound it extremely poorly. Xue Taojian, a page in the book, drifted around and ran around the thick decaying atmosphere and wiped away the dust of history. The scenes could not obscure those thin figures. Chang’an’s misty rain rose in March 3rd in the air. A round of moonlight slowly climbed into Liu’s head in Suzhou, turning into a rhyme, and Wang Wei’s waiting to lean into a leafy verse. In the face of a ruthless leader, he lives in troubled times and he clings to the heights of his soul, or screams in the wind, or tampers.