Chapter 4 4

That day we met on the side of the red dirt road under the blue sky, and everyone sat on the green lawn. In the south, there are rows of sal trees, old, tall and straight. It stands silently, turning a blind eye to the enchanting crescent moon. In the distance is a towering tree, like the back pong of Lord Shiva's retreat forest. His eyes are firm and cold, and he hates the weary singing of cuckoos. Several people invited: "It's late at night, poet, let's recite poetry." I opened the collection of ancient poems and read a few, feeling very depressed. These treasured wall jades are so weak, so stage frightened, and their voices are so subtle, so hesitant.

They are the ladies of the deep house, wearing veils embellished with gold thread, unaccustomed to walking on dirt roads, and staggering like geese. Ancient poems call them timid jade girls. They were admired and celebrated, their anklets jingled on the bed in the bedroom within the high walls. They are imprisoned in skilled fences. These people who participated in the roadside party broke the shackles of their families, took off their bracelets, and wiped off the auspicious moles on their foreheads. They are the pilgrims, who do not return to the temptation of their chambers, whose steps are firm and tireless; dressed in dusty grays, they look to the stars for their way.

They have no duty to entertain; how many a scorching noon, how many a dark midnight, in deep caves, in deserted fields, in pathless woods, their cries have aroused Muddy echo. Where do I put them on the judging table of praise and criticism? I gave up my seat and stood up. They hurriedly asked: "Where are you going? Poet." I replied, "I'm going into the rough, into the ruthless, and bring back strong, ruthless songs." ① Refers to the mistress in the fairy tales the poet read as a child. A new catastrophe. At the beginning of creation, in the vast space, the boundary of time was defined by light.

From the largest circle of hundreds of millions of years, there are countless moths flying out of the stars. Facing the first ray of morning light, they drilled out of the cave in groups, spread their wings and flew in circles, flying from one sky to another. At first they lurk in the chaos, enter the light, and take the flight of death-they do not know why they have an irresistible urge to die; they do not know what burning fire in the center makes them long to rush towards it like a madman. They seek the exhaustion of their ages in the mysteries of infinity. Until the dusk of the kalpa, the flames dimmed, the flight was difficult, the wings fell off, and they were annihilated in the eternal invisible light.

Beyond the line of sight of the galaxies, on the territory of the earth, the light and shadow determine the scope of the human age in a very small time unit. In an instant, galaxies are created and destroyed. Within the wide boundaries, the short time trajectory, painting and erasing, erasing and painting. Muhandajaro, floating like a bubble, disappeared silently in the sea of ​​sand. Samaria, Asia, Babylon, and ancient Egypt, magnificently stepped onto the stage of history within the wall of time, like works written in light ink, leaving faint traces, and then disappeared one by one. Their wishes are like insects, flying to the endless mist.

Heroes swear: Let the statue of the deeds transformed by the wish be immortal! They built magnificent triumphal arches. The poet expressed that he would write the pain of realizing that wish into a meaningful poem. On the paper of boundless space, scorching and shining letters are being used to write the incantations of offering fire on distant stars. In the time of reciting a mantra, the triumphal arch of the age collapses, the epic poems written by poets are silent, and the history of the fierce nation is in arrogance. die in. Tonight, facing the fleeting starlight, I worship the great time and space under the pergola.

Let the longing for immortality, like a toy in the little hands of a child, fall into the dust and drift away! I keep getting the time full of sweet syrup, who will approve its boundaries? Its infinite reality will not be included in the galaxy that has survived for billions of years; at the end of the doom, its candles are extinguished, the stage of creation is plunged into darkness, and in the background of destruction, it waits for the next doom. ①The Indian classic "Veda" says: One kalpa is 8.64 billion years. He has been with me since the day I was born. He is old and has become one with me.

Today I said to him: "I want to part with you." He floated on the blood of thousands of generations of ancestors; he harbored the hunger and thirst of generations. The ancient beggar - he, in the distant river of the past, used his emotions to stir up day and night, so as to obtain the carrier of new life. His roar disturbed the sound of nature coming from Taixu.He reached out and snatched away my offerings on the altar. The fire of desire makes him thinner day by day, under the protection of his "decay", I will never decay. Every moment he wins my mercy, so that when death seizes him I grieve, I am immortal.

Today I want to leave, let this hungry old man stay outside the door, eat and beg for food; mend the tattered blanket; between life and death, in the fields criss-crossed, pick up the leftover ears of rice. I sat by the window and looked at him - a traveler from afar. He came from the crossing of many roads of many minds and minds, from the crossing of deaths great and small. I sat on a high place and looked down. He was in a chaotic dream, in the light and shadow of hope, disappointment and sorrow. I was like watching a puppet show, laughing secretly. I am free, I am transparent, I am independent.

I am the everlasting light. I am the joyous stream of the source of creation. I am poor, surrounded by walls of pride, I have nothing. ①The ruins of ancient Indian civilization, now belonging to Sindh Province, Pakistan. ②An ancient country in West Asia. I looked into the distance under the autumn sun, as if opening my eyes for the first time, I saw novelty. The eyes that are exhausted on weekdays have lost their vision. In a trance, I feel that I am a pilgrim, listening to the chanting of mantras from the future. On the dream stream of rafting upstream, I arrive at the pier of this century.

I looked around in amazement, and I saw that I was outside of myself—the other side of the familiar identity, and I was the strange me of other times. I had a strong interest in him, and I stared at him like a bee leaning down on a flower petal. My naked heart, immersed in all phenomena.Stained and disfigured by noisy dirty hands, Wearing the deceived Taoist robe, at this moment, his worn-out veil fell off, and he appeared with the full value of existence and an indescribable posture. The dumb who was extremely despised in the world and still can't speak; broke the stagnant silence in front of me, like the first moving rooster crow on the dawn of the night. I - a long-distance traveler, traveled the world near me. Its "modern" cracks reveal the mysteries of all ages. Could it be that the martyr who burned herself to die for her husband also discovered the glorious truth of eternal life with new eyes through the shattered curtain of death?