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雨中的老街风吹过,灰色的老街,灰色的巷子,在雨气的氤氲中散发着粗布衣衫和临街茶水的家常味儿。我喜欢这雅致的情节,在岁月的廊檐下捡拾零落红尘的寂寞,缥缈如幻;在青砖灰瓦的缝隙里聆听诗意盎然的古韵,潺潺如溪。沧桑总是从荒芜开始,千百年来一直如斯。水湿的石板上,密密的针脚一步十织,缝起远古的传说和小镇的神话。曾经穿越的马蹄,气息渐弱,自浓至淡,像老街在雨水的浅影中,自明至暗。
The old style of the wind blew through, the gray streets, the gray alleyways, and the homelike smell of coarse linen clothes and street tea in the raindrops of the rain. I like this elegant plot, in the years under the eaves picked up scattered lonely lonely, magnificent; in the cracks in the brick to listen to poetic charm, gurgling like a river. The vicissitudes of life always start from desolation, has been so for thousands of years. Water wet slate, dense stitch ten knitting, sew ancient legend and the myth of the town. Horseshoe has been through, breath faded, from thick to pale, like the streets in the light of the rain, self-evident to the dark.