“我往前走了几步,我停下来,我倾听着。9月的草儿不再颤动了。我仿佛听见葡萄架下有蟋蟀唱歌,但那也许只是我耳朵的嗡鸣和往昔的夏日在我记忆中的絮语。半轮残月挂在空中。月光是微弱的,但足以使其他星星黯然失色。她高悬在那儿,挑逗着大地。对月儿的魅力我变得冷漠了。她飘浮在太多的被忘却的蹩脚诗歌之上。月亮是音乐家和诗人的危险的启迪者,是浅薄的形象和乏味的激情的母亲,她给黑夜和星辰抹上了忧郁的色调。”这是法国作家弗朗 “I walked a few steps forward, and I stopped and I listened. The grass of September was no longer trembling, and I seemed to hear the cricket sing under the grapevines, but that might just be the buzz of my ear and the old Summer in my memory of whisper. Half a moon hanging in the air. Moonlight is weak, but enough to overshadow other stars. She was hanging there, teasing the earth. I charm of the moon became indifferent. She floats on too many forgotten, crappy poems, the moon is a dangerous defender of musicians and poets, a mother of superficiality and boring passion, smearing melancholy tones of darkness and stars. ”This is the French writer Fran