它们蹲踞在时光的檐角,静默如谜。青石凿就的轮廓,被风雨磨出沧桑的釉色,却始终昂首,以凝固的咆哮镇守人间。鬃毛如浪卷云舒,爪下幼狮嬉戏,口中宝珠含而不露——是威严,亦是温柔的隐喻。
They crouch at the eaves of time, silent and still. Carved from blue stone, their forms are weathered by wind and rain, yet they hold their heads high—roaring in stillness. Waves of mane, playful cubs beneath their paws, and a hidden pearl between parted jaws—power wrapped in quiet grace.
工匠的凿刀曾在这里停留,将传说刻进坚硬的躯体。怒目圆睁,却看尽千年悲欢;张口欲吼,只衔住半寸月光。它们介于神兽与尘世之间,既是权力的符号,又是烟火里的守望者,在朱门金殿前,在断碑残桥畔。
The artisan's chisel once paused here, engraving myths into stone. Eyes wide with fury, they have seen centuries pass; mouths open to roar, but only moonlight rests within. Half-beast, half-guardian, they stand watch—at palace gates, by broken bridges.
朝代更迭,香火熄灭,唯有石狮的脊背愈沉。它们记得马蹄声、祷祝声、市井喧哗声,最终都归于苔痕。当游人摩挲它冰凉的趾爪时,或许会触到,某个匠人留在鳞甲里的体温。
Dynasties fall, incense fades, but the lions remain. They remember hoofbeats, prayers, and market noise—now lost in moss. And when fingers trace their cold stone feet, they may still feel the warmth left by a craftsman long gone.
责编:鲍泓霓
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