一个黯淡的春日下午,我站在了翠屏山顶。灰色的世界甚至没有夕阳的金辉来点缀。我站在寺庙门口,沉默久伫,四周梵音缭绕,不绝于耳。只见修行的僧尼恭立于佛像一侧,反复地诵忿经文。一个年老的和尚手捧器皿,肃立于佛像前;另一个僧人,年纪最老,身穿灰色僧衣,虔诚地跪在蓝底的蒲团上,面朝佛像,双手台十。梵音缭绕,不绝于耳……低沉的,有节奏的,语速稍快的 On a dim spring afternoon, I stood on top of Tsui Ping. The grey world is not even dotted with the golden glow of the setting sun. I stood at the entrance of the temple, silent for a long time, surrounded by the sound of the Sanskrit, never ending. The monk who saw spiritual practice stood on the side of the Buddha and repeatedly recited the scriptures. An old monk held his hand in front of the statues of Buddhas. Another monk, the oldest one, was wearing a grey jacket. He prayed deviously on a blue futon and faced the Buddha with his hands on both sides. The sound of the Sanskrit sounds, lingering, deep-seated, rhythmic, slightly faster