几年前,在北京孔庙的卖纪念品处,反复地放着古乐器埙的音乐磁带,十分地悠远苍凉。从远古飘来的声音,重重地敲击着自己麻木的灵魂。问了一下价,卖15元一盘,只觉得太贵,就放下了。出了孔庙大门,立即就又后悔了,可是再进去还得花15元买门票,便作罢。心想或许别处还能买到。然而,别处竟然没有。那埙的奇音至今揪扯着心中的悔,想起来就隐隐地针扎般地痛。 A few years ago, the souvenir shops at the Confucius Temple in Beijing repeatedly placed musical tapes of ancient musical instruments and were extremely desolate. The sound of flooding from ancient times, heavily pounding their numb soul. Ask a price, selling 15 yuan a plate, only feel too expensive, put down. Out of Confucius Temple door, and immediately regret it, but then have to spend 15 yuan to buy tickets, they give up. Maybe I can buy elsewhere. However, there is not. The barking tone of the broom has so far pulled the regret in my heart and remembered it as acupuncture-like pain.