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夏日的风,悄悄自徜徉在金黄里的最后一抹彩霞中滑落,蹑迹隐踪,穿过迷离朦胧的群星,把漫天的璀璨划破一道口子,漏下一地跳跃着的银辉。一枝轻烟,蘸满了迷离,自无形中柔起虬伸、袅袅绵绵,在视线里泼洒着朦胧。这烟恬静,象莫扎特白壁般的柔板;这烟幻变,象舒曼浓郁的浪漫;这烟升腾,象贝多芬四溢的辉煌;这烟徘徊,象巴赫周而复始的宿命。烟的辉煌里,有塞尚瞬间的印象;烟的旋涡中,有德拉克罗瓦蔚蓝般的深邃;烟的析析缕缕,有伦勃朗精妙的细腻;烟的聚散间,有毕加索抽象的无奈。然而,这烟却更像是老子孔子的道,废而
Summer wind, quietly wandering in the golden touch of the last touch of Cassia fall, traces of trace, through the blurred stars, the sky dazzled a breakthrough, missed the next silver jump. A light smoke, dipped full of blur, softly stretch since invisibly stretch, curl sponge, in the sight of sprinkle the hazy. The smoke was tranquil, like Mozart’s white-faced decks; the smoke degenerated like Rich Schumann’s romance; the smoke rose like Beethoven’s overflowing splendor; the smoke lingered, as did Bach’s fate. In the splendor of smoke, there is an instant impression of Cezanne; in the vortex of smoke there is the deep blue of Delacroix; the analysis of smoke is exquisite and the Rembrandt exquisite; the interlude of smoke has Picasso abstraction Helpless. However, this smoke is more like Laozi Confucius, abandoned