Chapter 3 3

With a wide heart I returned the image of death. It occurred to me that the most appropriate hour of death had come.Everything that belongs to me is given to my homeland and times All other things, all living beings, all ideals, all endeavors, all hope and despair, are still distributed in all countries and in the hearts of thousands of families. In the boundless chest of the sea of ​​time and space, from near to far, on the orbits of stars, unknown endless energy is rotating and bursting, and these are still within the last trembling boundary of my perception.One foot is still on this side of the boundary line, and the other foot has stepped across, and there, the chaotic watch is waiting, dialing the rosary beads of the long days and nights.

The countless entities contained in the "infinity" are spreading towards the past and the future. In that dense group, I disappeared for a moment. Is this true? Wild "non-existence" will eventually gain a place.Isn't there a way to divide atoms?If death is vain, wouldn't Seurali sink the ship of the world?If so, it is a violent protest against the grand whole. Give me some time and let me describe a place to go. There bees fly all day long on the path that smells of the flowers of Siris.The boundless blue sky drifts with clouds.Before the evening star rises, Qingxi sings in a low voice.

There, all consultations ceased.On rainy nights, in the empty apartment, the memories of the past no longer disturb the sound sleep. There, the mind is like a quiet banyan tree in the wilderness beside the village path where cattle are grazing—someone walks under the tree and blows their elbows; in the sleepy noon, someone puts down the bride's colorful sedan chair, sits on the ground, and blows the love flute.On the night of the twenty-sixth, the weak Qinghui of the last quarter moon blended perfectly with Cuntong in the midst of the ringing. There, the river to and fro rushes day and night without any interest, and there is no place to be placed in a "distant" state.Ni first closes or looks at the lake member Diao Sha four.He left without leaving a trace.

On the day of the wedding, why are the voices of these two birds silent? Like sparks flying in and out of Ji Zhu's thick blood, your burning lovesickness has been scattered among the trees surrounded by strings all night. As mortals, we build temples for love, use music to lay the eternal foundation stone; find the gospel of immortality, and build a solid high wall. A love song belonging to human beings, placed in the hearts of millions of lovers.It spread, spread across all nations, and spread through the ages. It comes from the earth, and beyond the earth, it lifts its head to the heaven of images.

Your joyous life is rich in simple rhythms, rich in the rhythm of flying wings, in warm, trembling breasts, your love nests are built in the world of birds-where are all the sweet greens fed by the nectar of life. , the tireless buzzing of bees, the shiny and trembling new leaves, and the excited flowers.The magic pen of the ever-new time paints fresh colors; memory, forgetting, like a pair of coals, flaps its wings and plays with light and shadow in a quiet place. With the color and juice of our own pain, we build an illusory palace to escape from the dust, for Love is lost, and the remote place is besieged again.

That's our song. In my mind, I watched the Padma River ② flow into the misty ends of the earth—the sandy beach on this side of the Padma River has no extravagant hopes and is content with poverty, so there are green bamboo forests, mango orchards, old trees, thick A broken wall mixed discordantly among them.By the pond is a yellow rapeseed field, with clumps of thorns growing along the road.The house built by Lord Indigo 150 years ago was dilapidated, and a broad-leaved tree in the courtyard rustled and wailed all day long. The cracked land of the villages of the Raja caste holds their goats.There is a grain store not far from the market, and the village that fears the merciless river always makes people feel shivering.

The Padma River has long been famous in Hindu mythology, and the Ganges of the celestial world flows in her veins.She is eccentric.She tolerated the towns, villages she bypassed, but denied them.Her pure and elegant rhythm is intertwined with the memory of the cold and silent snow-capped mountains and the call of the unaccompanied waves.There is a story about Xun Tian who can't remember Gao Shang's shooting and spraying white points Gao Jianxian on the pier.At night, I lie on the deck, being caressed by the eyes behind the big ball constellation.Waking up at dawn, I saw Venus was still doing his duty.The indifferent river flows on the left side of my complicated thoughts day and night, just like a traveler walking on the side of other people's pain and happiness, walking towards a distant place.

Later, at the end of the sparsely forested plain, I reached the end of my youth. From my apartment, I could clearly see the Shautar village covered by greenery.Here, my neighbor is the Kupai River.Her non-Aryan name is closely related to the crisp laughter of the Sautar girl. She hugged the cottage, talking cordially between this shore and the other shore. In the farmland next to her jade body, flax has bloomed, and rice seedlings have awakened and turned green. The dirt road breaks in the sand, and over the crystal-clear water she makes way for pedestrians. In the field by the river, palm trees stand tall, mango trees, blackberry trees, and Aman Raj trees are hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder.

The peasant language used by the Kuxiangyi River must not be called elegant language.Shui Shang is willing to be bound by her rhythm, and the waves and depressions are not too much for each other. She is slim and graceful, clapping her palms and dancing gracefully, stepping into the light and shadow thoroughly. The rainy season gives passion to her limbs, she excites drunken Sautar girls, but never destroys, drowns anything.She twirled the skirt of the water vortex, flicked the two banks, and ran with a giggle. In late autumn, her water flow is weak and transparent, and the pebbles at the bottom of the water are clearly visible.However, plumpness turned thin and pale, which did not make her shy.She does not advocate for wealth, she does not degenerate because of poverty, both of which reflect her beauty, like a dancer who dances step by step, rests quietly when tired, with tired eyes, and a smile still lingers on the corner of her mouth.

Now, the poet's rhythm, which she regards as her confidant, has been mixed in the water and soil that gave birth to her language—there are rhymes written in language and housework in language. Accompanied by her changing eyes, the young man with low water washing on Xianyong Island hunted with a bow; the ox cart loaded with bales of straw waded across the river; the potter carried clay pots to the market, followed by a dog in the village. The ones walking behind are ten teachers with a broken umbrella on their head and a monthly salary of only three yuan. ①A river near the International University founded by Tagore.

②The Padma River flows through the farm that Tagore once managed in Beijing Yijiala. I wrote a screenplay. Let me briefly introduce the content first: Arjuna, the distinguished guest of Indra, the god of thunder, stepped into the paradise, and Ulivashi, a Kalin dancer, stepped forward to present a wreath.Arjuna said helplessly, "Goddess, you are a celestial resident and enjoy perfect honor. Your beauty is beyond reproach. Your fragrant wreath should be dedicated to the gods." "There is no shortage of plaques in the kingdom of heaven," Youli Poshi said with emotion, "Immortals have no desires, and I never ask for them. I am as busy as I am. Alas, since there is no evil, who do I need to pursue true beauty for? On the neck of a fairy, my bright garland is worth nothing. I long for the world, as the world longs for me. So I come to you. Pour out my love for you, accept me. The mortal sheds Tears like nectar, this is a hopeless hope in the heavens. " I thought I had written a really good script. What, you want me to delete the word "very good" from the letter?Why?This is bragging?No, this is the truth that flows from the tip of my pen. You marveled at my lack of humility and asked, "Are you sure it's fine?" "I'm not absolutely sure," I said, "that what's good in one era may not be good in another. I just call it a good work in this age without thinking. If I hesitate, I keep silent. Timeless truth. Over the decades I have created a considerable number of works, which I consider to be the best.If I became my bitter enemy and attacked them, I would be "happy". This script is going to end up like that one day, so please allow me to say frankly today, it's a good script. This may cause some misunderstandings. The situation is like a heavy rain falling suddenly, with streams of muddy water dripping everywhere.However, my pen will still move forward unpredictably on the paper, like a drunken swallow dancing wildly after drinking too much wine. I will finish this letter, as a ship sails through a fog, the machine does not stop.Let's talk about the language of the script. Literary friends strongly advocated that the dialogue in the script should be in rhyme, while I wrote prose. Poetry is the sea, and it is the first creation in the early days of literature.Its characteristics are manifested in the ups and downs of the rhythm. Prose Shanshan came late. Its feast is outside the rigid rhythm.Beauty, ugliness, right and wrong crowded each other in the hall of the throne; tattered rugs and sutras were mixed together with music and noise. The command of prose is like the sky rising, writing the sound of wind, driving electricity.Riding the gentle melody, riding the earth-shattering storm. Yiliwen sometimes sprays fire roads and sometimes pours waterfalls. In the prose world, there are vast plains, towering mountains, deep forests, and desolate deserts. Whoever wants to master prose must learn a variety of techniques, have the spirit of high house construction, and avoid the hindrance of brushwork. Prose does not have the turbulent appearance, it stimulates the inner melody with a well-balanced approach.In the script I wrote in this kind of prose, there is both eternal silence and occasional turmoil. Today, when the first bucket of milk was squeezed in the pasture and the merchants in the market made their first business, I was facing the fresh morning light, holding a basket on my shoulders, and selling the slightly yellowish unripe fruits. I wandered for hours on the road. Many people are talking about my fruit.Many took it and returned it, and many tasted it without paying. The day waits for it to pass. Time passes without leaving footprints. Yet why do we store loads of memories?Why put the responsibilities of one day on another?The arrears are repaid, the loan is recovered, why not face the future calmly. I admit that selling yesterday's leftover hair alone will not make a prosperous business, but it doesn't matter if you sell some! Day after day, the rent of this world has to be paid in cash, and how foolish it is to spend the last day vainly disempowering and locking the door! " So, at the first bell, I headed out to settle my debts.When I walked to the door, I turned around and saw you standing in the "contemporary" garden. From now on, when your companions cry out that I don't need me, there will be a pang in your heart. This is my worry. This is my hope. You are not here to judge what is right and what is wrong, you connect your years with mine, with your heart.I look at your big eyes, and your eyelids are full of worrying expectations. So, I returned again, keeping the oath of love.At dusk and dusk, I look into your face and make new attempts.I adorn my intentions with the jewels of your heart.I'm thinking of you, I left it at your roadside inn, and I hope that in the future you will say that it touched your heart and fulfilled your needs. I don't have time for fame.You have trusted me with all your heart.It is my wish to leave your trust to future generations as Sichuan capital. May you proudly declare: I am one of you.With this kind of longing, I walked into the present age——Looking back at dusk, there is no sign of you. Wherever you go, my old days are veiled and gone, and the songs of the old years have eternal connotations. Now, I am alone in the "novelty" group, bumping forward, here, there is only today, no yesterday. The orchards, trees, and cultivated land in the west stretched and stretched, melting into the purple haze of the distant forest. The villages of the Sautar ethnic group are hidden in the fruit pulp trees, palm trees, and tamarind bushes, and the red dirt road without tree shade winds around the village, just like the bright red border of a dark green sari.A palm tree stands abruptly, as if pointing the direction for the confused travelers. The stretch of green forest belt in the north was pierced with a gap, the soil was lost, and the uneven red rocks saw the silent turmoil; the rusty black soil interspersed with it was like a buffalo horn transformed into a devil. Good luck washed a corner of his courtyard with rainwater, creating an unknown hill for people to play, and at the foot of the hill flows an unnamed river for people to splash and play. In the short farewell ceremony of the setting sun in the western sky in autumn, it is surrounded by motley colors.At this time, I discovered the magnificence in the seventh game of the gray earth, which reminded me of a rare evening in the past, the same landscape on the bare red peaks of the Red Sea. On that dirt road, the storm that hit at the beginning of the year was like a brave knight in ancient times, holding high the Swiss battle flag, embracing the heads of towering trees, trembling mahogany and hemp chestnut trees, stirring up sighs in the quiet bamboo forest, rushing into Banana plantations, tyrannical rule. Looking at the gray and undulating gravel under the weeping sky, the sudden storm on the Red Sea and the splashing water droplets appeared in my mind. I used to go there when I was young. The clear spring gurgling out of the cave once aroused my magical reverie.In the quiet noon, I alone piled the Jinsu stones I brought into various buildings. The years are like water, and the past few decades have slipped past me like water gliding over rocks.Living on the fringes of the bare dune field under the sky, I shaped the image of my work as I built castles out of cobblestones as a child. On the rainy day when I was writing, let me cast my eyes on the red pine, the solitary palm tree, the people who became friends with green fields and red soil, and those who showed their hearts to me, some are still alive, some are already went. At midnight, when my day's work was finished, they called me from heaven. Then what?The cracked chest of the land in the north still shines with blood-red rays, the farmland in the south is still growing branches and crops, cattle and sheep are still grazing in the wilderness in the east, villagers are still walking to the market along the red dirt road, and the edge of the western sky is still a tourist line. I am sending you a book full of poems. The densely packed poems are squeezed into a cage.You get all the poems but not the four gaps between them. The poems that landed in I'i's leisurely place are now left behind. If you wove a necklace of midnight stars, it might fetch a high price in Good Fortune's shop.However, those with an aesthetic taste understand why it depreciates. The depreciated sky cannot be weighed accurately, but it is full of emotion. Expand your imagination: playing soft music, in the chest of speechless time, is a precious gem - why not put it in jewelry to appreciate it! In the palace next to Rome Didier, the poet wrote poems and poems every day.At that time, there was no time and space for the printing house, the devil, to smear poetry.But there is a hydraulic shoulder to grind out the juice of poetry, and it settles in the mouth mouthful.The taste of poetry has to be tasted while listening to the interface after a meal and tea. Alas, those who listened to the shackles of the Yangming Dynasty called Wo Kexie; poems were exiled in the library; Taiwan has no choice!This is an era of literary groups.Poetry has to take a bus to meet its readers. The soul of poetry sighed deeply: "Oh, if I was born in the age of Yingli Tuosha, if you were in the age of Yingli Tuosha..." So what if I was born in that era!I'm afraid it's also a Chaili Tuo who succumbed to printing. You are the heroine Maer Dengjia in his works, who bought a collection of poems and sat in a swivel chair to read.He will not listen to the recitation with his eyes closed, nor will he wear a jasmine wreath to the poet after listening. Just spend a dollar and a quarter to buy this collection of poems and everything will be fine. ①The king of Daichanni City mentioned in the famous work "Cloud Messenger" by the famous ancient Indian poet Jili Tuopo.