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回到城市的无数个夜晚,我一次次被黑色音箱里传来的忧伤的蒙古长调打动,任一把孤独的马头琴,将我从喧哗浮躁的世声中带到万籁俱寂的草原。神奇的长调,那分明不是歌,不是吟唱,不是诗,而是领引人走入天籁之境,灵魂净土的神祗。我静静地听着,任眼眶慢慢地蓄满泪水,如同身临其境。从未发现有这样一种倾述,可以瞬间让人浓缩成一滴水,一棵草,一片云,一粒砂砾,我静静地把脸,把一颗心转向马蹄浩荡的烟尘,风呼啸着,纱雾弥漫了整个山冈,我的心,悬在云朵震颤,
Back to the countless nights in the city, I was impressed by the sad Mongolian longings coming from the black speakers, any lonely dances, bringing me from the noisy, impetuous world of music to the quiet grasslands. Magic long tone, that is clearly not a song, not singing, not poetry, but lead the lead into the sounds of nature, the soul of the Pure Land god. I listened quietly, slowly filled with tears in my eyes, as if on the scene. Never found such a dumping, people can instantly condense into a drop of water, a grass, a cloud, a gravel, I quietly face, a heart to the mighty horseshoe smoke, the wind whistled, Yarn fog filled the entire hill, my heart, trembling in the clouds,