Chapter 2 2

11 In early summer, the green leaves have just spit out buds.Summer comes to the garden by the sea.Gentle south wind, soft intermittent lazy singing.And so the day ended. However, let the summer of love blossom come to the gardens by the sea.Let my joy be born, let it clap its hands and dance to the surging song.Let the morning open your eyes with sweetness and wonder. 12 Ah, spring!A long, long time ago, you opened the south gate of the kingdom of heaven and descended into the land where chaos was first opened.People rushed out of the houses, laughing, dancing, ecstatic, throwing pollen at each other.

Every year, you come to earth with the April flowers that you scattered on the road when you first walked out of heaven.Thus in the rich fragrance of thy flowers pervades the sighs of days now a dream--the nostalgic mourning of a dead world.Thy breeze is laden with old legends of love that have vanished from human language. One day, you suddenly broke into my heart, which was anxious and trembling because of my first love, and brought a new miracle.Since then, year after year, the sweet shyness of the joy never experienced is hidden in the green buds of your lemon blossom; the indescribable tenderness of my heart remains silent, like a burning flame Like red roses; the most beautiful page of my life - the deep memory of the passionate May time whispers with the rustling of your new green leaves every year.

13 Last night, in the garden, I offered you the wine of youth.You raise your glass, put it to your lips, close your eyes and smile.I lift up your veil, part your long hair, and press your peaceful and tender face to my breast.Last night, the moonlight flooded the sleeping earth like a dream. Today, the morning dew is crystal clear, and the dawn is still.You just came back from your bath, wearing a white robe, carrying a basket full of flowers, and walking towards the temple.I stood in the shade of a tree beside the path leading to the temple, with my head bowed in the quiet dawn. 14 Suppose I am restless today.I love, forgive me.This is the first summer rain, and the trees by the river are swaying and trembling, and the Katambo tree, which is full of flowers and leaves, holds a cup of mellow wine, and is coaxing the passing wind.Look, the lightning flashes in the sky and casts hasty sights, and the wind is dancing wildly on your hair.

If I am too industrious today, I love, please don't be offended.The misty rain covered the scenery we saw every day. All labor in the village had stopped, and there was no one on the pasture.The coming rain finds its music in your dark eyes, and July waits at your door to dress your hair with its budding frangipani. 15 People in the village call her the black girl, but in my heart, she is a little flower—a black lily.The first time I saw her was over a field where the clouds were rolling in with lightning.Her veil trailed to the floor, and her black braids hung loose over her shoulders.Maybe she was a black girl, as the village people said.However, I only saw her dark eyes, which were as cute as a fawn.

The howling wind foretells that heavy rain is coming.Hearing the panicked mooing of the little flower cow, she quickly ran out of the hut. Raise your big eyes and look up at the sky, listening to the faint thunder.At that time, I was standing by the rice field - only the girl knew (and maybe I knew) whether she noticed me or not. .She was lovely black, like a cloud that brings showers on a hot summer day, like a soft shadow in a dense forest, like the wordless secret longing for love in the vexing May night. 16 She used to live by a pond where broken stone steps jut out of the water.How many nights, she has gazed at the melting moonlight that has become dizzy because of the swaying bamboo leaves; how many rainy seasons, she has smelled the fragrance of moist soil from the young seedling fields.

Under the date palm trees, in the courtyard of the village, girls talked and laughed, sewing winter clothes.Her name is always mentioned with affection.The memory of her arms playing in the water is still preserved in the depths of the pool, and the trail leading to the village is still printed with her wet footprints when she passes by every day. Today, the village girl who brought a water pot to the pond to draw water used to tease her innocently and saw her smile, and the old man who drove the cattle to the pond stopped by her door every day, Greetings to her. How many sailboats have sailed past the village, how many travelers have rested under the banyan tree, and how many people have been transported to the market on the other side by ferry, but no one has ever paid attention to this place, beside the country road, near the broken stone steps. In the pond near the water, my beloved girl once lived.

17 Long, long ago, the bee flew back and forth in the summer garden, the moon smiled at the lily in the night, and the lightning flashed its kiss to the cloud, and ran away laughing.Standing in a corner of the garden covered by trees and shrouded in clouds and clouds, the poet makes his heart silent, as peaceful as a flower, watches his dreams like a crescent moon, and wanders aimlessly like a summer breeze. One dusk in April, the moon rises like a cloud of mist from the sunset.The girls are busy watering the flowers and feeding the deer, and teaching the peacocks to dance.Suddenly, the poet sang: "Listen, listen to the secrets of this world! I know that the lily is pale and haggard for the love of the moon; the hibiscus lifted her veil to meet the rising sun. If you want to know, the reason is very simple.

What the bee whispers to the first jasmine, the scholar does not understand, but the poet understands. " The sun blushed and went down the mountain, the moon wandered in the woods, and the south wind told Furong softly: This poet seems not as simple as he looks!The young girl and the handsome boy looked at each other with smiles, clapped their hands and said, "The secrets of the world have been revealed, let our secrets go with the wind too!" 18 If you must give your heart to me, your life will be full of worries.My home is at a crossroads, the door is open, and I'm absent-minded - because I'm singing.

If you must fall in love with me, I will never return my heart.If my song is a vow of love, please forgive me, when the music dies down, my pledge is gone, because in the middle of winter, who will keep the vow in May? If you must fall in love with me, please don't keep it in your heart all the time.When you laugh and talk and your eyes shine with the joy of love, my answer must be fanatical and flippant, not at all practical--you should take it to heart, and then forget it forever. 19 It is written in the scriptures that if a person is over half a hundred years old, he should stay away from the hustle and bustle of the world and live a secluded life in the forest.However, the poet declared: Jingxiu Forest should only belong to young people.Because, there is the hometown of flowers, the home of hummingbirds and birds;

There, secluded corners await the tremor of lovers' whispers.Yuehua kissed the frangipani, expressing her deep affection and friendship. Only those who are far below fifty can appreciate the profound meaning. Ah, the youthful youth, both inexperienced and stubborn!Therefore, they should live in seclusion in the dense forest and undergo strict training in love and romance, and let the old people manage the world and make a living. 20 My song, where is your market?It was when the scholar's snuff polluted the summer breeze, and people debated endlessly about "whether the oil depends on the barrel or the barrel depends on oil", and even the old and yellowed manuscripts were wasted for such a boring moment. Where is the frowning peak of lost life?My song cried out: Oh, no, no, no!

My song, where is your market?In the marble palace lived the increasingly arrogant and fat millionaire, his bookshelves were full of leather-bound and gold-painted books, and the servants dusted the books from time to time, the title pages of which had never been read. The inscription on it is dedicated to the nameless god.Is your market there?My song took a sharp breath and said: No, no, no! My song, where is your market?Young students are sitting at the desk with their heads down on the books, but their thoughts are wandering in the dreamland of youth; prose is scurrying on the desk, and poetry is deeply buried in their hearts.The dusty and messy study room, Geer, would you like to play hide-and-seek there?My song hesitates, does not speak. My song, where is your market?The young woman who was busy with housework ran into the bedroom quickly, and hurriedly pulled out a love story from the pillow. The book was torn and crumpled by the baby, and the pages exuded the fragrance of her hair.Is your market here?My song sighs, hesitates to speak, can't make up its mind. My song, where is your market?Birds sing softly, brooks sing brightly, and the strings of the universe pour songs on the trembling hearts of a pair of lovers. Is your market there?My song bursts out: yes, yes, yes!