袅袅的萧声撞击着你酸涩的痛楚,一双女人的手锁住了一个崩溃的王朝,一个男人不小心输掉了半壁江山。所有抗争都成了徒劳,生命不可承受离别的凝重的伤痛,沉闷的绝望笼罩着你那脆弱的心灵。中国的文化,绝版的文化,我们来迟了。
The whistling sound of curl hit your sour pain, a pair of women's hands locked a collapsed Dynasty, and a man accidentally lost half of the country. All the struggle has become futile, life can not bear the heavy pain of parting, dreary despair covers your fragile heart. Chinese culture, out of print culture, we are late.
风雨千年,沉默千年。你那沉默忧郁的灵魂,孤独地跋涉着,那凄婉的故事在风中流传,在水中漫朔。穿过苍苍莽莽的地平线,飞越泪水斑斑的守望,悲怆而来。在时光的隧道里,一群群石匠,弯下腰,挥动着凿刀,一刀,便凿开一个泣血的故事。一切,便凿开一段圣洁的伤感。中国的文化,绝版的文化,你流着泪,淌着血,穿越了千年的风雨,也震憾着千年的沧桑。
Thousands of years of wind and rain, thousands of years of silence. Your silent and melancholy soul, trudging alone, that sad story spreads in the wind, in the water manshuo. Through the boundless horizon, over the tears of the watch, Pathetique. In the tunnel of time, a group of stonemasons, bending down, wielding chisels, a knife, will chisel a bloody story. All, then cut open a section of holy sadness. Chinese culture, out of print culture, you shed tears, shed blood, through thousands of years of wind and rain, but also shocked thousands of years of vicissitudes.
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