Maybe it should be attributed to those idylls that have spread too widely. I often find that people have a misunderstanding. They always think that the grassland is just a cradle of romance. Whenever they hear that I come from such a world, they will reveal a kind of Curious look.From that look, I can immediately read alluring words such as white clouds, flowers, girls and wine.It seems that it is difficult for these friends to understand a kind of mood conveyed by those songs, a kind of mood that is the basic psychological quality of shepherds. On the vast prairie, in the vast sea of ​​leather, there is a rider riding alone in Yuyu.The scorching sun baked him, and he tossed in silence for days.Nature steamed with a strong, choking grassy smell, but he was used to it.His eyebrows were furrowed and his complexion was dark. He was carefully recalling the past, thinking about his relatives, and chewing on the difficult life.He indifferently endured the regret, guilt and inner pain, and walked silently facing the soothing and undulating grassland without saying a word.A elusive thought floated from his chest, hovering lightly and lowly before and after his horse.This is an inexplicable mood that even he himself has not discovered.

This sentiment will not be heeded or soothed.Between heaven and earth, since ancient times, there is only this piece of green grass that has been transformed by the severe cold and heat for countless centuries.As a result, people became rough and tough.Everything inside is blocked by that cold, masculine face, and without a hard drink or something special to break down that defense and unleash the softer part of people's nature - you'll never break through the barriers And go deep into the heart of a man who rides a crooked horse. However, spirituality is real.The emotions that had been lingering in the hearts of the riders for too long had quietly risen.It lingers and turns into a melody, a taste that is endlessly expressive, endlessly described, and yet simple, a unique spirituality.This spirituality has no sound, but it has a sense of music that seems to be destined-including slow rhythms, life-like melodies that repeat themselves, and colors that are either green or blue.Those riders who had been silent for too long hummed unknowingly in this spiritual urging and envelopment: they began to tell their thoughts and unload the burden of their hearts.

Trust me: this is where Mongolian folk songs originated. A high-pitched and pathetic long tune rang out, knocking on the chest of the earth and crashing into the low-moving clouds.A new line chases the echo of the previous line on a beat of intense twisting, soaring, and groaning groans.The grassland seems to have been injected with blood, and everything has new content.The song became agitated, and it spread to the distant sky with all its heart. The horse on which the singer rode walked and listened.Only it is nodding its head, silently expressing sympathy to its master.Sometimes people's tears splash on the horse's mane: the singer finds a soulmate, and in this way, almost all the ancient songs with a long history have a name of a horse: "Slender Green Horse", "Purple Red Fast Horse" ", "Iron Blue Horse" and so on, and so on.

The ancient song "Gangga? Hara" is one of the countless.I first heard its melody when I was a child.I remember that I was stunned, with my hands hanging down, standing quietly in the grass, waiting until the singing died away in the wind.I felt a sense of intimacy fill my heart.Later, as I grew up, I unconsciously developed a preference for it, although I was far from understanding it.Even now, I can't claim to have understood its bland lines.What song is this?Perhaps, it can be regarded as a song about love? Later, when I met a writer who was said to be deeply thoughtful, I asked him this question.He explained: "It's very simple. It's just an impact of undeveloped childlike innocence by strong humanity. In fact, although this song can be called simple and unpretentious, it doesn't have a strong appeal." I asked suspiciously: " So, why has it been passed down since ancient times? And, why do I always feel that it is lingering in my heart?" He smiled, and generously squeezed my thick arm: "Because you are mature. Do you understand? Baiyin Baolige , that is because of the beauty of love itself. She is attracting you."

Where did I think: After a long time, instead of singing, I repeated this ancient song myself. When I raised my head buried deep in the grass, stared at the blue sky, listened to the low-pitched song that passed between the clouds and the grass, and looked for the invisible spirituality in the silence, I gradually felt that, Those overly passionate and far-reaching endings, the inseparable sentimentality in this world, the simple and simple tragic stories; and the deep and sincere love are just some support or framework.Or rather, it's just the colors and tones that spirituality relies on to make music.But the real soul inside that ancient song is much more hidden and complicated.It is it, which has impressed our ancestors and us from generation to generation, but never allows us to fully appreciate it.I stared intently at the long sky where the singing was fading into, and a flock of chirping geese flew by, interrupting my search.I think of the writer I admired for a long time, and I feel the superficiality of celebrities for the first time...

Oh, now, it's time to bring this question up again.I would like to ask myself, and people, and those friends who have never met but are in love with me: what kind of song is this song about?Why can this ancient song be sung like this from ancient times to today? Beautiful and good at running - my black steed Chained to that door—to that elm cart In the depths of the desolate grassland far away from the sacred ancient alliance Obo, Mother Lake, and Xilin River, you can see a clear and clean river named Bolegan.The shepherds explained jokingly that maybe a sister-in-law was famous here, so the river got such a reasonable name.However, I once heard my white-haired grandma say in person: Bolegen, long before our Mongolian ancestors came here as nomads, a married girl "gives" the husband's family with a different surname, and parted ways with the parents who saw him off. creek.

I rode my horse and waded through the flowing water. The horse stopped and drank in the clear middle stream.I raised my head; looking at the familiar and unfamiliar scenery around me.Twenty years on, Borregon Creek remains the same.I remember when I came here for the first time, my father held my head and yelled, "Hey, get down! Little calf, take a few sips, this is the water from my hometown in the grassland!" Not long ago, I accompanied several experts from the Planning Department of the Animal Husbandry Department to investigate the value of young animals in this area. When I made a special trip to visit my father at the People's Committee of the neighboring banner, he got angry at me again for some reason: "Hmph! Accompanying the experts Be a translator? Hmph! You calf, don’t think that you can escape my whip right now... You should roll into the reeds of the Beregan River, soak in the river for three days and three nights, and wash away your blood. Come see me again with the smell of big translators and big cadres!"

Father, do you think that only you have sincere love for the grassland?Don't forget: there is no substitute for experience, everyone is living... Snow-white reeds with velvet flowers grow densely in the river bends and on the wet grasslands, and wild geese honk high in the sky, forming an ever-changing queue.Riders walking through the wall of reeds are sometimes unable to move forward; the flock of geese that have just landed are clamoring and shouting for joy, splashing the waves with their wings, and the reeds are crowded and rattling.The wild geese are busy setting up a warm nest, and they don't pay attention to those who are in nature's deep thoughts.

I urged my horse up the steep river bank, and the familiar scenery came into view.This is the cradle where I lived, the grassland where I have been away for a long time.Father—he calmed down when he heard that I was going to come here to visit, but he didn't understand my state of mind when I returned to my hometown... Oh, my hometown, you are as green and misty as in a dream.Do you know what kind of pain you have brought to those who forsake you? On the hill on the left, a group of scattered sheep were grazing, and I saw from a distance that the shepherd was leaning on the grass and basking in the sun.I galloped towards him.

"Uh, good friend I don't know, hello. Uh... what a beautiful black horse!" He also squinted at my dark horse. "Hello. Is this horse running well? It was lent to me by the commune." I casually responded. "Well, the commune borrowed it from you, of course—I know him. Well, this is Ganga Hara. That's right, I caught a glimpse of him from a distance last year when he ran first at the race meeting. So, no mistake. The commune has lent you the most famous Ganga Hara." Steel Ga? Hara? !It was like a thunderbolt booming in front of my eyes, my eyes were dizzy, my riding was unstable, and I almost fell off the horse.But I still held my breath: "Your sheep are fattening up, brother." I said as I got off the horse, sat next to him, and handed him a cigarette.

Oh, Ganga? Hala... I stared at this dark horse with a tall frame, straight ankles, and a broad chest protruding from the muscles.In the sun its fur glistened like black satin.My little black colt, my black steed!I call it silently.How can I not recognize you?The shepherd just glanced at you and left you in his memory like a knife.As for me, you know that when you first came into this world as a being, maybe I was the only one who had such ardent hopes for you.I gave you this proud name: Ganga? Hara.You see, fourteen years have passed.Time is like the wind on the prairie, disappearing at the end of the earth farther than the light blue distant mountains and the source of the Borragan River.It passed by, passed away, and never returned, leaving only a sad feeling in people's hearts.Nine years after I left, I changed from a herdsman to a scientific worker in the Animal Husbandry Department; as for you, you became a famous horse star.Are you OK?my friend?You are sniffing me, you are licking my skirt.You are as keen-sighted as this shepherd, and you recognize me.So—can you tell me where she is?I haven't heard from her since we parted, and you are the proof of that time.You should understand how much I miss her.Because I know her muddy future.Are you shaking your head?Are you nodding?Where is she—Somiya? "Uh, smoking." The shepherd handed me one of his cigarettes. "Okay, oh... It's so comfortable to bask in the sun! Brother, are you from the Berregan production team?" I asked. "No. We live very close, though." ...At that time, my father was the president of this commune.He put me on the back of the saddle and came to grandma's house. "Erji!" he yelled, "No, I'll give you Baiyin Baoliger. He lives in the town of the commune and has become worse and worse. Hit a big hole! How can I have time for him? Running all day on the ranch team." The white-haired grandma squinted her eyes happily.She threw a cowhide jug to her father, then embraced me affectionately, and kissed me on the forehead with a sizzle.It's so slippery on the scalp.I struggled to get out of her greasy embrace, but I didn't dare to sit beside my father, so I slowly moved to the side of a black-eyed little girl who was quietly drinking tea.She looked at me, I looked at her; she smiled, and I smiled too. "What's your name?" I asked. "Somiya. Is your name Baiyin Baolig?" Her voice was sweet and pleasant. My father drank enough milk wine, slightly drunk, supported my shoulders, and went outside to catch the horse.The grass in midsummer is damp, with dewdrops hanging on the tip of the grass, shining with a misty and crystal-clear shimmer.I ran happily, grabbed my father's livid walking horse, and tried my best to untie the leather horse. "Baiyin Baolig!" My father grabbed my shoulder.I saw his black beard trembling. "Son, I've been looking for a home like this since the day your mother died... You should know how busy I am. Grow up here, just like your grandfather and father. Work hard, little calf. Er There is no man in Ji's house, it depends on you. Be like those men on horseback! Understand?" "Riding?" I asked longingly. "Will I have my own horse?" The father replied disapprovingly: "Of course. But the important thing is that you can't become a little hooligan in the commune town." In this way, I became a child in a tent.I learned to pick up dung and catch calves.Coax the lambs in the spring; learn to harness the cattle to drag water on the well platform in the splendens; learn to harness the sheep and the year's colts with the poorly made pony pole.I am the same age as Somiya, both born in the year of the sheep, and also the baby of the white-haired grandma.The two of us worked together, and we also studied Mongolian and arithmetic together in primary school for three years: in the formal school in summer, and in the felt bag of private teachers in winter.She calls me "Bapa"; I sometimes call her "Shana" and sometimes "Jiga"—I still don't understand how the prairie children can make so many strange names. It will make ethnologists who study kinship terms have a hard time. The grassland is so big, so beautiful and so enjoyable.It hugged me, melted me, made me used to it and couldn't live without it.My father often came to visit me when he rode a green horse to the countryside, but I no longer wanted to pester him. As soon as there was a sound of a calf stealing food or a dog knocking over a bucket outside the door, I would immediately leave my father and open the door to go out. teach them a lesson.Sometimes my father was giving me instructions, and I rushed out immediately when I heard Somia yelling at the door for a cart. When I was riding on the back of a bull and driving a wooden cart towards a well in the distance, when I looked back, a man on a black horse was leaving our house alone.For some reason, I felt a sense of pride over my father's dignity.I don't need him to give orders to me anymore.In this green and lovely field, I am already a man standing alone.I looked at Somiya, she was sitting cautiously on the big wooden tank, watching me with trust and admiration, I straightened up majesticly, and gave the key bull a whip.The blue-winged swallows dodged in front of the bull's head, and the thick and straight achnatherum snapped under the wheels.I drove forward contentedly, shouting a line or two at the top of my voice from time to time. Fourteen years ago was the Year of the Goat: Soumia and I were both thirteen years old. The age of thirteen is the first time that Mongolian children receive courtesy from everyone. During the Chinese New Year, grandma put Somia and me in new leather robes with bright yellow smoky cow dung and bright lace.We put on an ox cart and went to visit everywhere, because it was our birth year, so the shepherds gave us all kinds of gifts according to the rules.Somia happily counted her presents, looking at those moon cakes, flower towels, and magnetic tea bowls one by one.But I couldn't help feeling a little bit emotional: On such an important festival, I actually drove an ox cart to visit the door like a woman's family; while other children from families with herds straddled their mane-cut manes proudly. The tall horses, following the cavalry of the adults, shouted in the flying snow and fog, galloping from one yurt to another, alas!When will I have a horse? Somiya comforted me and said, "Don't worry, there will be. Grandma said that in two years, we will ask the team for a herd of cows. Then you will have five horses." "Hmph! Two years!" I shouted at her angrily, "but what will we do during these two years?" Unexpectedly, things changed so quickly. In spring, one night a few days before Qingming, there was a dark snowstorm.All night we huddled in the leather quilt, huddled next to grandma, listening to the roar of the wind, the rattling of the top of the bag, and the indistinguishable gallop of the horses.Grandma dragged on anxiously and said, "Well, the horses were caught by the wind and snow... Well, the pregnant horse is going to die..." The next morning, a miracle happened! Somia and I pushed open the snow-sealed wooden door, and suddenly saw a pitch-black pony standing outside our private door.In the distance, it is still faintly visible on the snowy slope with white hair blowing.See a zombie on a black horse. We screamed, holding and hugging the foal into the bag.It opened its tearful eyes in fear, its limbs were bent, and it trembled against the felt wall.The fire roasted and melted the frozen fur on its body, making it look black and shiny. Grandma didn't even bother to tie the belt, she hugged the foal tremblingly, wiped its body dry with her quilt, then untied the robe, and hugged the foal tightly in the bat.She kissed the pony's forehead which was exposed outside the skirt of her robe, and babbled one set of superstitious words after another.She said that the black horse was probably sent by God.Because Baiyin Baolige has reached the age of riding a horse.Baiyinbaolig is a good boy, a boy God gave her, so God should remember to give Baiyinbaolig a good horse.If it wasn't like this, who has ever seen a horse that gave birth to a foal that froze to death in the snowstorm, and the foal that hadn't eaten a mouthful of milk could walk down the hillside and hide at the door of the yurt?She also said that she had seen many foals in her life, but never such a beautiful one.It seems that raising and feeding this pony is the last thing God sent this old bone to do in her life... Somia and I were fascinated.We are completely overwhelmed by the idea of ​​grandma.Later? When we saw her sewing an amulet for the black pony with red curtain blocks, we all forgot what the teacher taught us against superstition. Evening snow has not cleared away, and the mountains are still mottled.Every day, after drinking a small bucket of milk, the black pony often straightened its neck on the soft grass, jumped up lightly, and then lay down slowly, staring at the mountains and flowing clouds for a long time.When Somia and I came back from picking up dung on the hillside, we always liked to puff up our cheeks and give a sharp whistle; or we would yell "Hey-yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!" Jumping and jumping, dodging the marian grass and cow dung heap that it is afraid of, it rushed towards us with that distressing and beautiful footwork.We threw down the basket, helped it clean the dirty black fur, hung up the crooked red cloth amulet, and fed it piece by piece the mooncake pieces, brown sugar, and oil fruits we saved.In the distance, the grandma, with her silver hair fluttering, was busy milking and tying the middle calf, as if for a sacred mission.Of course we didn't let him spend the night outside, and at night he was always tied to the fire in the bag by a soft woolen rope.The little pony joined our family, and the four of us lived happily and enjoyed the infinite fun it brought us. One day, we were playing with the black pony, and the grandma squatting at the cow's feet suddenly became interested.While she was milking, she hummed a song, which was "Ganga? Hara". Grandma was doing her work and singing like no one else was around.After milking, she broke the bean cake into small pieces and put them in the wooden trough, leading the cows and calves one by one.She sang and lectured the greedy cow: "Beautiful and good-running black horse, hehe... Get away! White nose! Can't you eat enough! - Tethered to... that elm cart, hehe ..." Grandma sang affectionately, but unexpectedly, she is still a singer!When she draws out the long and graceful ending, her voice is hoarse and high-pitched, as if she can sing difficult flower sounds casually, maybe I used to listen to the cheerful children's songs taught in school, This simple and ancient thing makes me feel so novel.Somiya and I looked at each other, not even daring to breathe, just listening to grandma's narcissistic singing.Grandma sang the story of an elder brother riding a beautiful black steed for a long distance, across the vast grasslands, to find his sister.She always sings endlessly in an endlessly tortuous coda, and only tells us the result of this step in one or two words until she has tortured us enough.The rider brother couldn't find his long-lost sister again and again, and even we listened to him and felt anxious for him.Oh, what a fresh and touching song it is, it is like a stream of clear snow water, like a gust of wind that blows people's mind and body transparent, soaking through my skin, caressing my heart... I lost my mind He stood silently on the grass, clenched his fists and listened.The sensations aroused by the wonderful tune in my heart gradually turned into a horse covered in black satin, with its head up and neighing; every move, foot, and mane of this black horse was deeply imprinted in my mind. Such a realistic impression. The song is over.I wake up.Somia was holding the black pony's neck, weeping silently.I yelled, "Hey Shanna! I'm going to give this horse a great name! You know what, he's the son of the black horse that Grandma sang about. I'm going to call him 'Ganga Hala'!" Definitely going to be a real fast horse. Hey what a name: Black Steed... I'm going to ride it after those nasty old bulls. I, I'm going to ride it all over Ujimqin, all over Xilin Gol, walk all over the grassland!" Somia looked at me in surprise.She said, "Of course, it's going to be a black horse. You see, he's capable of running through the wind and snow to our door...but, Bapa," she stared at with dark eyes. Looking at me, "Well, after you have really traveled all over Xilin Gol and all the grasslands, will you ride your Gangga? Hara come back here to see me like grandma sang?" "Of course!" I replied without hesitation. "Hey! Hey!" The shepherd pushed me, "What's wrong with you, are you sick? My friend, you look very bad!" I startled, "Oh, nothing," I replied, "it's so warm." Immediately, I stood up and pulled Ganga Hala past.