它們蹲踞在時光的檐角，靜默如謎。青石鑿就的輪廓，被風(fēng)雨磨出滄桑的釉色，卻始終昂首，以凝固的咆哮鎮(zhèn)守人間。鬃毛如浪卷云舒，爪下幼獅嬉戲，口中寶珠含而不露——是威嚴(yán)，亦是溫柔的隱喻。

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.

工匠的鑿刀曾在這里停留，將傳說刻進堅硬的軀體。怒目圓睜，卻看盡千年悲歡；張口欲吼，只銜住半寸月光。它們介于神獸與塵世之間，既是權(quán)力的符號，又是煙火里的守望者，在朱門金殿前，在斷碑殘橋畔。

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，香火熄滅，唯有石獅的脊背愈沉。它們記得馬蹄聲、禱祝聲、市井喧嘩聲，最終都歸于苔痕。當(dāng)游人摩挲它冰涼的趾爪時，或許會觸到，某個匠人留在鱗甲里的體溫。

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.

責(zé)編：鮑泓霓