掸去历史课本里那些缠绕的蛛丝与烟尘,耳际仿佛可以穿越时光,听见千年之前的涛声。月华清冷,似寡言史官冷眼站在红尘之外,从不因一时的悲喜而惊动心湖。而那月下静水却被几瓣落花骤然刺破,掀起波纹,一去不返。就在这水月之畔,动静之间,黄泉埋葬了多少奇才?青史又留住了几番春梦?而当历史的长河淘尽浊沙,总会有星辰浮起, Shan Shan silk textures and dust in the history textbook, my ear as if through the time, I heard the waves of thousands of years ago. Yuet Wah Ching Ching, seems to be reluctant historian standing cold outside, never because of temporary sadness and joy and heart. And that water was quietly under the moon a few petals suddenly punctured, set off ripples, gone. In this water moon, between the static and dynamic, how many priests buried in the Yellow Springs? Green history has retained several spring dreams? And when the long history of Amoy do turbidity, there will always be stars floating,