Chapter 2 2

Pulling away the thick curtain of the desert for thousands of years, reveals the grand skeleton of the ancient human site whose date has been lost - its living place is behind the invisible barrier of history. Its tumultuous century buried poets and their works in the cold depths. Budding songs, budding songs, things with a bright future, darkened that day, slipping from secrets to deeper secrets—Mars under the veil of smoke, sold, unsold, sticking to a The mark of price, the market, died together without a loss, without a scab. The clean and quiet sky revolves for ten thousand years. Torn off the black umbilical cord, born in new worlds under the sun, drifting through the frothy fields and star rivers, like idle clouds in the rainy season, like short-lived moths, and finally reach the end of their lives.

In the vast ages, you are a wandering monk, creating leaps from the crest of your deep meditation to the trough of your meditation. "Interpretation" and "uninterpretation" dance wildly in turn, and you sit in meditation in the peaceful center of the wild dance, enjoying eternal joy. O cruel one, convert me to your sect.Between life and death, between acquisition and abandonment is a transcendent tranquility, the heart of the blazing fire of creation, secluded, stable, allow me to build a monastery. I saw in my heart that the silent penance of ancient times stretched out its hands from the tuanpu sitting in meditation to block the noise of history.

I saw the mountain range with cockroaches and peaks. In the valley where the screaming and curious eyes can't penetrate, and the sun can't shine, the hermit paints on the rock wall of the grotto, just like the creator paints a portrait of the universe on a dark background. They poured their heartfelt joy into their paintings, regardless of their own status. They erase their surnames and don't reach out and beg for value. O Anonymous, O ascetics of image, I salute you! Your epoch-making performance has given me a taste of relief from the vain fame. Sinking into the holy darkness that erases names, you purify your practice.I extol the sublimeness of that "darkness".

Your silent words solemnly declare in the grotto: the sacrifices enshrined in front of the name and the future reputation are the food of ghosts; they are dedicated to the enjoyment of the "virtual form" without digestive function. Lost ones, don't chase after the "empty form", don't refuse to accept the food bestowed by the present-day "Anopura". The dead leaves of the Sagina tree at my door have fallen, and the branches are full of passion with new leaves; the dock in mid-spring is built by the river in the middle of Jetra. At noon, the phoenix shakes the branches; the flying dust makes the blue sky slightly dim, and the chirping of birds makes an abstract painting of harmony in the wind.

In the ever-flowing river of evanescence, there are waves of unrequited and lively life; in the undulations, my heart shines like the leaves of a flaming tree. I hold in my hand the gift of this moment, a reality in which there is no doubt, no contradiction. When I was composing songs, my heart was filled with the green waves of the beautiful forest, the excitement of the breeze, the extension of the sun, and the joy of flowers blooming. A nameless guest, a traveler without an address, walks in my heart. The truth it contains is perfected in an instant, and does not climb on the back of the name to boast.

On the other side of today's horizon, in the time I can't see, when millions of names who don't know each other and are not close to each other are crowded and pushing each other, my carefree and shadow-like name, like misfortune and them Wriggling together, that's a damned greedy mirage. In the darkness of my fascination, sits the author of the painting of the universe, nameless, appearing in joy. ① One of the names of Goddess Durga, which means "Goddess of Giving". The infatuated heart said: "I give you my whole kingdom." This is naive and unrealistic!How is the kingdom given?How do I accept it?

It is a continent separated by seven oceans, vast, silent, and insurmountable.Hold your head up on the cloud-covered mountain top, and your feet into the dark cave. My body seems to be an unlandable planet. With the help of a telescope, only some pores in the air ring can be found. The whole I mentioned actually has no name. When will its dissection diagram be drawn? Who maintains a direct relationship with it? The fragments collected from the virgin land, and the shape put together, have a name. The surrounding sky is full of lights and shadows of failure and success, colorful shadows of complex emotions, falling in the heart; winter and spring coexist in the wind; invisible and vivid entertainment, who can explain clearly?Who grasped it with the hand of language?

One boundary of the region of life is fixed due to the complexity of work, and on the other boundary, frustrated exploration turns into clouds in the sky—a mirage of painting. The personal world emerges at the narrow intersection of life and death in the human world. In the lightless regions, in the vast ignorance accumulates intoxicated power and unearned glory. Ungerminated seeds of success in the dirt. There is cowardly shyness, hidden self-contempt, all kinds of material in the mask of self-pity in ordinary experience-the thick darkness despises forgiveness in the hands of death. This is the immature, unbloomed me, who is this for?What's the use?Bringing things like the beginning of death is like a metaphor.

The language bound by emotions, unable to pour out, unbearable childishness of creation, destroyed in the depths of mediocrity. The philosopher works with a mysterious veil, the flower is hidden under the veil of the bud, the artist's unfinished business is kept in the dark, and there are some signs that the imprisoned whole is on the way of "discovery". His Zen meditation among me is not over, so the dignified silence surrounds me, I can't get it, but I can understand it; he is creating in an unknown circle, and it has not yet reached the time to show it to others. People who stand at a distance and say "understand" don't understand.

There seemed to be evil stars summoned by evil curses gathered around, spreading an invisible net from the bottom of my heart, affecting the blood vessels, and the pain was unbearable. The pain seems to be boundless, and it seems that there is no way out in despair, so I have to grope in the dark. Under the weight of bad luck, the tall building collapsed. At this time, the eyes look beyond the present castle and fly to the distant horizon of the past—the goddess is holding a banquet. In the dark shadow of the ruins of the dynasty, shadowy musicians play Shiva's divine harp, playing and singing the frightening myths and stories handed down from the past.

The story was woven with threads of memories of unbearable grief. The thunderbolt of catastrophe thundered that day, death roared madly, and the most pliable strings of the goddess of art sprang fearful shudders. I saw that in the temple of creation, the flames of sorrow, shame, and distress erupting from the bottom of my heart cooled down and condensed into a statue of the unflammable gospel.Outside the hall, there are ashes of pain that have been extinguished like a mountain, without light, speech, and meaning. In the faint morning light, the cuckoos were crying intermittently, which sounded like firecrackers. The colorful and golden clouds drift slowly in the sky. Today is market day, and on the road up the fields, oxcarts carry rice sacks and clay pots full of freshly squeezed sugar cane juice. In the village girl's back basket, there are yu heads, raw mangoes, and young stems of the Sajna tree. The school clock struck six. The sound of bells and the bright colors of the twilight mingle in my heart. I moved a chair and sat under the oleander tree by the wall. The sunlight from the eastern sky sweeps away the mottled shadows of the grass blades. In the cool breeze, the branches and leaves of two coconut trees standing side by side rustled like twin babies crying sweetly. Behind the smooth green leaves of the pomegranate tree, several cute little pomegranates are exposed. The month of Jetra has entered its final week. The spring sails in the sky and the sea hang down loosely. The undernourished reeds are withered; on both sides of the gravel road, the seasonal flowers of Europe have faded and are sluggish. The exotic westerly wind blows into the courtyard of Jetra Moon. If you don't want to, you have to wear a thin blanket. The water in the flower pond is rippling, the grass is shaking, and the goldfish are swimming swiftly. On the hillside where the children play, a four-faced stone statue is surrounded by dense grasses. It seems to stand on the distant shore where time flows, with an indifferent expression. The touch of the solar terms cannot penetrate into its stone body. Its artistic language has nothing in common with Lin Shu's words. The essence rising from the underworld spreads to the branches and leaves of every tree day and night, and the stone carving lives alone outside the extensive friendship. A long time ago, the esoteric meaning injected into it by the artist, like the dead treasure of the God of Wealth Yaksha, has no connection with the phoneme of nature. At seven o'clock, the clouds disappear.The sun climbed up the wall, and the shade of the trees shrank. From the back door of the garden came a little girl with two braids dangling on her back. Holding a bamboo pole in her hand, she grazes two white geese and a group of goslings. The couple of white geese solemnly performed their duty of protecting their children. The little girl shouldered the heavy responsibility. The heartbeat of a gosling in her hand aroused the nectar-like love in the young mother's heart. I really want to save this beautiful morning. But it comes lightly and leaves lightly. Its sender has paid its debt in the treasury of its own joy. ①The tender stems and fruits of the Sagina tree can be eaten as vegetables.