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一夜色早已浓稠,一支四十来骑的队伍,沿着河流方向,悄然行进在菲留扎谷地。这条凉幽幽的山谷——蜿蜒于波斯与土库曼人肆意驰骋的广阔平原间,四面为科佩特山脉环绕,山峦起伏,依稀连绵,森严地守卫在峡谷两侧。这条千年沧桑的伊朗古道,无尽的岁月中,见证了多少人世间的悲欢离合,在这里,人们的心灵,有过欢腾和喜悦,有过悲伤和流泪,也有过死亡和别离。长夜漫漫,已深入越发漆黑的后半夜,一线绵长的马队旁,有十四个身影,拖着步子蹒跚而行,一根绳索将他们前后相连。内中,有九名
One night already thick, a team of 40 to ride along the direction of the river, quietly marched in the Philippine Valley. This cool, secluded valley, meandering over the vast plain where Persia and Turkmen wantonly wander, is surrounded by the Koophotol mountains, rolling over hills and valleys, guarding the canyon valiantly. This endless journey of thousands of years has witnessed the joys and sorrows of many people in endless stretches of the ancient Iranian road. There are pleasures and joy in people’s minds, sorrows and tears, and death and parting. Long night, long into the dark night has become more dark, next to the long line of horses, a fourteen figure, dragging their steps staggering, a rope to connect them before and after. Inside, there are nine