青石磐磐,芳草悠悠。我站在街头,凝望着被夕阳渐渐吞噬的青石巷像站在隧道的一头,努力思索着要以怎样虔诚的姿态迎接另一头的亮光。车轮碾过厚重的青石板,巷子深处传来古朴神秘的粤调,清水渗进绿豆沙发出清脆的激荡,穿着干净的校服坐在跷跷板上背单词的阿离和乐此不疲讲述各种八卦的你都被时间不经意地用粗糙的马赛克涂抹得只剩深深浅浅的色块。一样的歌谣, Bluestone Pan, long grass. I stood on the street, staring at the bluestone Lane, which was gradually engulfed by the setting sun, standing on one side of the tunnel trying hard to ponder on what kind of pious gesture should I take to meet the other side. Wheels over heavy stone, the depths of the alley came the ancient and mysterious Cantonese tune, water infiltration into the mung bean crisp sofa, wearing a clean school uniform sitting on the back of the word A and bored to tell you a variety of gossip you All of them were left in deep, light colors by the rough mosaic of time. The same song,