Chapter 2 2

In the secluded outskirts of a city in the west, the scorching heat of the day monitors an old out-of-favor building with sloping roofs.In the building, there is a perennial shadow crouching, imprisoning the old smell.The four sides of the yellow carpet on the ground are woven with patterns of hunters raising their guns and shooting tigers. According to the white dirt road protruding from under a young tree in the north, the flying dust is like a light shawl of the scorching sun. Wheat, gourds, and watermelons are planted on the sandy land in front of the building.In the distance, the shimmering Ganges River and passing boats form a charcoal sketch.

Baggia, the maid with silver hands, was grinding wheat in the porch, humming a monotonous tune.Servant Kildari sat beside her for a long time with secret and inappropriate motives. Old Qingshu F had a deep well, and the gardener used the power of the oxen to turn it to draw water. The sound of squeaks and bites made the noon atmosphere sad, but Ganli's well water revived the cornfield. The warm fragrance of mango blossoms is as light as gossamer floating in the hot wind, and bees gather among the new leaves of the tall and tall trees. In the afternoon, the neighbor's girl came back from the city. Her thin face was tanned and pale, but she was still reading aloud the masterpieces of foreign poets with great interest.

Thus, the sadness in the heart of the great man on the other side of the ocean melted into the dim light mixed with the shadow of the dilapidated blue bamboo curtain, and melted into the fragrance of the damp horse whip. I remember, like a butterfly flying in the colorful gardens of England, so I also used to collect words in foreign languages ​​in my early youth. On depressed days, I ask for my pen: don't make me feel guilty; don't let the works that can't shake everyone's heartstrings fall into the eyes of the quasi-scientific;Light up the colorful lanterns, oh, don't be stingy!

The world is vast, its honor is never dimmed, and its character is very gentle.With its head held high in the invisible sunlight, its unblinking eyes are serene and firm, and rivers, mountains, and plains are stretched across its chest.It does not belong to me, it belongs to countless people.Its drums resounded, its flames lit the dim, its banners fluttered in the sky.Before the world, don't make me feel guilty. My loss, my trouble, is a speck of dust to it. When I rely on self-control to forget my own pain, the pain appears in the face of the world.Then I saw that the torrent of sorrow flows on the chest of years through dense tributaries; the mighty river of heart flows in the riverbed where thousands of families live; Vicissitudes are brewing along the coast.The joys and sorrows of people from ancient times fell into my chest in an instant, like a flood that made my ribs tremble, and then disappeared into "infinity" amidst the wailing of the earth. The motive is unknown.

Today, I ask for my pen: don't make me feel guilty.Let your contribution be like the river water leaching out of the embankment; let my sorrow be covered by your gift; let my sad cry melt into thousands of music in the world. A North Indian who has lived for many years has a tall body, silver lips, and a shaved face like a shriveled fruit.The upper body is a checkered vest, and the lower body is covered with bibs.He put on cloth shoes on his feet, leaned on a cane with his right hand, and went into the city with a cloth umbrella in his left hand. It was August, and the rising sun dazzled the thin clouds.Wrapped in black, Zai was already out of breath.The misty wind carelessly shakes the twigs of the Amuraj tree.

At the end of my world with erratic phantoms, he found a traveler.All I know is that he is a man, without a surname, without consciousness, without feelings, without needs, just a person walking to the market on an August morning. He also saw me, in the wandering purple haze at the end of his sexual life, people have nothing to do with each other, only very human. In his family, there are scholars and experts, and there are four towns in the cage.His wife wears a crude brass helmet and pushes the millstone bravely.He has neighbors who do laundry, knows the grocery store owner well, and owes money to the people of Kabul.

I'm not among them, I'm just one person. You gave me a gold fountain pen and other stationery--letters of all kinds, silver-plated paper-knife, scissors, shellac, red ribbon, red, blue, and green pencils in cellophane. There is also a walnut art desk. You told me to write a letter every day. After taking a shower in the morning, I sat down to write a letter. I didn't know what to write for a while. I just have one message right now - you're gone. You also know the message, but you don't seem to understand the content of the message deeply.So, I want to start by telling you - you're gone.

Again and again I pick up my pen and realize again and again that this news is not simple.I am not a poet, I do not have the ability to express my heartfelt and hope in words. A piece of letter paper broke me. It's already ten o'clock, and your nephew Pagu is going to school, and I have to feed him. I wrote "you are gone" for the last time, and all the other words were written in the strokes that were altered in disorder. The Chameli tree and the Muhuya tree have been attached to the same pergola for ten years, shoulder to shoulder.At the feast of the sun every day, the first green leaves happily announce: We are seated.Their intertwined branches are free from conflicts of power, but not a mark of hatred is left on the heart of joy.

I don't know when not to go, Chameli, who is carefree and ignorant, stretches out her soft and green new technology, wrapping around the f wire, obviously not aware of the difference in the temperature core of the two species. In mid-August, white clouds hang down on the branches of Jieluo trees and disappear.On the golden morning, Chameli bloomed a lot of flowers, triumphantly, and there was no dispute anywhere. The frangipani frangipani frangipani frequently disappeared, and the turtledoves crowed at noon, which was very exciting. burnout. In autumn when the fruit was ripe, when the sun was setting and the clouds were changing, a few linemen came. When they saw that Chameli was not keeping his duty, his eyes were full of fierceness.The trivial things for people's enjoyment stretch out their seductive hands to the dry and rough modern necessities in the air!

With their sharp pincers they pluck at the flower-covered twigs.With a death blow on his chest, the ignorant Chameli finally realized that the wires belonged to another caste. ① Chameli tree and Muhuya tree are both Kumamoto plants. Like a ship escaping from a storm and falling into a foreign land, he came from Germany to a group of strangers. He had no money in his pocket, but he had no complaints; he taught hard every day, received a meager salary, and lived an extremely simple life according to local customs. He never submissive, nor arrogant. He swaggered forward, showing no sign of frustration.

He conquered every moment of the day with perseverance, and never looked back when he abandoned it.He doesn't seek any personal gain for himself He played sports as a normal person, talked to people, laughed, and never encountered an unaccustomed obstacle anywhere. He is the only German, but he can't help feeling lonely, and he spends the years of living abroad with ease. Every time I meet him, I feel admiration.Among the teachers and students, he is so easy-going, so approachable, and his pretentiousness has nothing to do with his nature. Another man came from his country. He browses everywhere, looking at the landscape he is obsessed with, regardless of whether others look at it or praise it. They walked side by side on the gravel road, like two autumn clouds.They were travelers, not deep-rooted trees.Their aspirations cover countries and ages, and their hard work spreads all over the world. The hearts of the two of them are like a surging river, nourishing all things, and they don't stay in one place for a moment.Together with other scholars who have left their countries, they are building the road to people of different colors. The festival of worship is approaching. The golden flowers reflect the morning sun, and the cool breeze blows gently.Rongli's delicate fragrance is like the smoothness of slender hands.Looking up at the leisurely white clouds, it is difficult to concentrate. The teacher explains the formation process of lignite in the classroom. A student was dangling on his legs, and a picture came to his mind—a lychee tree beside the wall of Banji's house near the dilapidated wharf of the lotus pond.It is fruitful.The A Chu by the river goes through the cowherd's village and the flax field in seven turns and eight bends, and extends to the market. In a classroom in the economics department, a bespectacled, award-winning student writes out in his exercise book what he wants to buy—a pair of gold-embellished shell hands, a pair of red velvet slippers from Derry.A contemporary novel and a hardcover collection of poetry, the title of which has not yet been determined.In addition, you can purchase a saree of "Heart-to-Heart" brand on credit. In a three-story building in Varbanipur, rough, high-pitched voices were discussing: Abu Bahar or Madura?To Dalhousie or Pooley? ①Or go to Isshiki Darjeeling ①Abu Bahar, Madura, Dar Iqi, and Zengli are all tourist attractions in India. I saw the goats that were pre-purchased in May and June tethered on the street decorated with lights in front of the station, and their wailing in vain echoed in the quiet autumn sky where the reed flowers were fluttering.Do they understand that the time of dedication is approaching?