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堆积如山的案卷 把你的脊背压弯 白纸上那些密密的黑字从你乌黑的头发中抽出 直至抽出 一缕缕纤细的银丝 抽得额头 失却了往日的风范 路在脚下延伸 几十个春夏秋冬 你饱蘸着一腔热血 完成了
Stacked mountain of files on your back Bending of those dense black on white paper from your dark hair until pulled out a plume of thin silver pumping his forehead to lose the style of the past Road at the foot of dozens of spring extension Summer and winter, you are dipped in a chamber full of blood completed