Chapter 151 2

Thrills thrown from your eyes keep my pain forever fresh. Oh, mad, drunkard number one; if you kick your doors open and play mad in public; if you empty your pockets overnight, and snap your fingers at prudence and contempt; if you walk strange paths, and useless things Play, disregarding rhythm and reason; if you hoist the sails before the storm, you snap the rudder in two; then I'll follow you, buddy, drunken to perdition. I wasted days and nights among steady and wise neighbors. Too much knowledge has made my hair white, and too much observation has made my eyesight blurred. Over the years I have amassed many scraps; break them, dance on them, and throw them to the wind.

Because I know that it is the highest wisdom to get drunk and perish. Let all crooked scruples die, let me be hopelessly lost. Let a whirlwind blow and carry me away with the anchor. Noble people live in the world, working people, useful and intelligent. Some people walked ahead calmly, while others walked solemnly behind. Let them be happy and prosperous, let me be foolishly useless. For I know that getting drunk and falling to death is the end of all works. At this moment, I swear to give up all my demands to the gentleman. I throw away the pride of my learning and my judgment of right and wrong.

I smashed the bottle of memory and swayed the last tears. I bathe in the foam of burgundy and make my laughter radiate. I'm tearing apart the signs of gentleness and earnestness for now. I'll swear to be a worthless man, get drunk and perish. No, my friend, I shall never be an ascetic, call it what you will. I shall never be an ascetic if she is not ordained with me. It is my firm resolve that, unless I find a shady abode and a penitent companion, I shall never become an ascetic. Nay, my friend, I shall never leave my fire and home to retire deep into the woods, if there were no laughter echoed in the shadows; Deepened by soft whispers.

I will never be an ascetic. Dear elder, forgive this pair of sinners. Today the spring breeze blew wildly and swirled, sweeping away the dust and dead leaves, and your homework was thrown away along with it. Master, don't say that life is empty. For we made a pact with death, and for a sweet moment we both became immortal. Even if the king's army came ferociously in pursuit, we would shake our heads mournfully and say, Brethren, you have disturbed us.If you must do this rowdy game, tap your weapons elsewhere.For we have just become immortal in this fleeting moment of time. If kind people come and surround us, we shall bow respectfully to them and say that the honor shames us.In the infinite sky we inhabit, there is not much room.For in the spring when the flowers are in full bloom, the busy wings of the bees jostle each other.The little paradise where only us two immortals live is ridiculously small.

For those guests who must leave, ask God to help them walk quickly and sweep away all their footprints. Hold the comfortable, simple, close smile together in your arms. Today is the holiday of the Phantoms, who do not know when they will die. Let your laughter be but meaningless joy, like the sparkle on the surf. Let your life dance gently on the edge of time like dew on the tip of a leaf. Play upon the strings of your harpsichords an indeterminate, momentary note. You left me and went on your own. I think I will be sad for you, and I will use golden poetry to cast your lonely image and make offerings in my heart.

But, my bad luck, time is short. Youth fades year by year; spring is temporary; feeble flowers wither meaninglessly, wise men warn me that life is but a dewdrop on a lotus leaf. Can I ignore these and just stare at the person who betrayed me? It would be unhelpful, stupid, because time is too short. Come, then, my rainy footsteps; smile, my golden autumn; come carefree April, throwing your kisses. You come, and you, and you! My lovers, you know we are all mortal.Is it a smart thing to break your heart for someone who takes her heart back?Because time is short. Sitting in the corner of the room and meditating, it is sweet to write all of you in my world in the rhythm.

It is heroic to cling to one's sorrows and let no one comfort them. But a new face, peeping outside my door, lifts up to meet mine. All I can do is wipe away my tears and change the tone of my song. Because time is short. If that's what you want, I'll stop singing. If it makes your heart tremble, I'll take my eyes off your face. If it makes you startle suddenly while walking, I will avoid it and go another way. If it upsets you when you string your wreaths, I will keep from your lonely garden. If I make a splash, I won't row a boat by your river. 48 Release me from your sweet shackles, my love, and pour no more wine of kisses.

The smoke of cigarettes choked my heart. Open the door and let the morning light in! I disappear within me, wrapped in the folds of your caresses. Release me from your temptations, and give me back my manliness, that I may offer you my free heart. I took her hand and held her close to my chest. I want to fill my arms with her loveliness, steal her sweet smile with kisses, drink her dark glance with my eyes. Oh, but where is it?Who can filter the blue from the sky? I want to grasp beauty; it eludes me, and only the body remains in my hands. Disappointed and sleepy, I return. How can the body touch the flowers that only the spirit can touch?

Day and night, love, my heart longs to meet you - a meeting like death that devours all. Take me like a storm and take everything from me; split my sleep and rob me of my dreams, rob me of the world. In this ruin, in all the nakedness of the spirit, let us be one in beauty. My fancy is poor!Where is the hope of this unity except in you?my God? 51 Then let us go after singing the last song. When the night is over forget about the night. Who do I want to hold in my arms?Dreams are never caught. My longing hands pressed the "emptiness" against my heart and crushed my chest. Why did the lights go out?

I covered it with my cloak lest it should be blown out by the wind, so the light went out. Why did the flowers thank you? My ardent love pressed it to my heart, so the flower withered. Why did Quan do it? I built a dike to hold it in for my use, so the spring dried up. Why did the strings break? I force a syllable it cannot hold, and the string breaks. Why does staring at me make me ashamed? I'm not here to beg. Just to pass the time, I came to stand outside the fence of your yard. Why does staring at me make me ashamed? I have not picked a single rose or plucked a single fruit from your garden.

I humbly seek shade under a roadside shed where any stranger can stand. I did not pick a single rose. Yes, my feet are weary, and the showers are falling again. The wind calls in the swaying bamboo forest. Cloud formations ran across the sky as if retreating. My feet are tired. I don't know what you think of me, or who you're waiting for at the door. Lightning blinds your gaze. How did I know you'd see me standing in the dark? I don't know what you think of me. The day ended and the rain stopped. I leave your shade of your garden and your seat in the lawn. The daylight is dark; close your doors; I will go my way. The day is over. The market is over, where are you going with your basket in haste at night? They all went home with their burdens; the moon peeped through the gaps in the village trees. The echo of the ship's call echoed from the deep black water to the far marshes where the mallards slept. Where will you go in a hurry with your basket when the market is past? Sleep pressed her fingers to the eyes of the earth. The crow's nest is quiet, and the whispers of the bamboo leaves are also silent. The working people returned from the fields and spread the mats in the yard. Where will you go in a hurry with your basket when the market is past? You left at noon. The sun was shining. I had finished my work and was sitting on the porch when you left. An uncertain wind blows, carrying with it many fragrances of the far fields. In the shade of a tree the pigeons are hooting incessantly, and a bee is flying in my house, buzzing with news from far and wide. The village fell asleep in the midday heat.No one was on the road. The sound of leaves came and went. I gaze at the sky and weave in the blue the name of a man I know, as the village sleeps in the midday heat. I forgot to braid my hair.The sleepy wind plays with it on my cheek. The river flows peacefully under the shaded banks. The lazy white cloud didn't move. I forgot to braid my hair. You left at noon. The road is dusty and hot, and the fields are panting. Doves call among the leaves. I sit alone on the balcony when you go. 56 I am one of the women who is busy with mediocre daily chores. Why did you single me out, bring me out of the cool shade of everyday life? Love that is not shown is sacred.It shines like a jewel in the obscurity of the hidden heart.It looked pitifully dim in the strange daylight. Oh, you broke the lid of my heart, dragged my trembling love into the open place, and destroyed forever the dark corner that hid my heart's nest. The other women are the same as before. No one peeps into the deepest part of themselves, they don't know their secrets. They smile, cry, talk, and work briskly.They go to the temple every day, light their lamps, and fetch water from the river. I wish I could rescue my love from undisturbed shyness, but you turn your back. Yes, your future is great, but you cut off my way, and leave me naked before the world's lashless eyes stare day and night. I picked your flowers, O world! We pressed it against our chest, and the flower stabbed me. As the daylight fades, I find that the flowers wither, but the pain remains. Many fragrant and colorful flowers will come to you again, oh, the world! But my flower-picking days are past, and the night is long, and I have no roses, only pain remains. One morning a blind girl came and offered me a wreath under lotus leaves. We hung it around our necks, and tears welled up in my eyes. I kissed it and said, "You are as blind as a flower." "You yourself do not know how beautiful your gift is." O woman, you are not only a god, but a handicraft of men; they adorn you with beauty from their hearts forever. Poets weave your webs with figurative golden threads, and painters give your figure eternal new immortality. The sea offers its pearls, the mine its gold, and the summer garden its flowers to adorn you, cover you, and make you more beautiful. Desire of the human heart, sprinkle your youth with glory. You are half woman, half dream. In the midst of life's galloping roar, oh, "beauty" carved out of stone, you stand silently, alone and transcendently. "Great Time" sits at your feet with attachment and whispers: "Speak, speak to me, my love, speak, my bride!" But your words are blocked by stones, oh, "immovable beauty"! 61 Be quiet, my heart, let the time of parting be sweet. Let it be not a death, but a fulfillment. Let love melt into memory, pain into poetry. Let the flight through the sky end in folded wings on the nest. Let the last touch of your hands be as tender as flowers in the night. Stand still for a while, ah, "beautiful ending", speak the last words with silence. I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light your way home. On the dim path of dreams, I went to find the love of my previous life. Her house is at the end of a cool street. In the evening breeze, her beloved peacock was sleeping on the shelf, and the pigeons were silent in their corner. She put the lamp by the door and stood before me. She raised her large eyes into my face and asked wordlessly, "How are you, my friend?" I want to answer, but our language is lost and forgotten. I thought about it and couldn't remember our names. With tears in her eyes, she held out her right hand to me.I stood silently holding her hand. Our lamps fluttered and went out in the evening wind. 63 Pedestrians, do you have to go? The night is still, and darkness sleeps on the woods. Our balconies are brightly lit, and full of flowers, and the eyes of youth are still awake. Is it time for you to leave? Pedestrian, must you go? We have not embraced your feet with entreating arms. Your door is open.Your horse standing outside the door is also saddled. If we want to stand in your way, it's only with our songs. If we ever tried to keep you, it was only with our eyes. Traveler, we have no hope of keeping you, we have only tears. What unquenchable fire glows in your eyes? What restless heat runs through your veins? What call from the darkness draws you? What dreadful incantation have you read from the stars in the sky, That night came into your heart silently and strangely,Brought news of that sealed secret? If you don't like the bustle of meetings, if you need quiet, sleepy mind, we'll blow out the lamps and silence the harpsichord. We shall sit silently in the darkness with the sound of wind and leaves, and the weary moon shall shed pale light on your window. Oh, traveler, what sleepless spirit has touched you from the heart of Zhongye? 64 I spent the day on the hot dust of the road. Now, in the evening coolness, I knock on the door of a small temple.The temple has been abandoned and collapsed. A sad linden tree stretches its hungry claws from the cracks in the broken wall. Once upon a time passers-by came here to wash their weary feet. They spread out mats in the courtyard in the twilight of the new moon, and sat talking about the scenery of foreign lands. In the morning they are refreshed, and the song of the birds cheers them, and the friendly flowers nod to them from the roadside. But no lights were waiting for me when I came. Only the black smudges of residual lamp smoke, staring at me from the wall like the eyes of a blind man. Fireflies flicker in the grass beside the dry pond, and bamboo shadows sway on the barren path. I was a guest without a host at the end of the day. There is a long night before me, and I am weary. Are you calling me again? Night comes, and sleepiness wraps its arms around me like a plea of ​​love. Did you call me? I have given you all my days, cruel housewife, will you rob me of my nights? There is an end to everything, and the dark silence is personal. Must your voice pierce the darkness to sting me? Is there no music and no sleep at your door at night? Have the silent stars never climbed above your tower of inhumanity? Shall not the flowers of your garden fall to the ground in soft death? Will you call me, you restless one? Then let the sad eyes of love weep in vain hope. Keep a lamp burning in an empty room. Let the ferries take those sleepy workers home. I leave behind my dreams and come to your call. A wandering lunatic is looking for the philosopher's stone.His brown hair was matted and covered with dust, and his body was as thin as a shadow. His lips were tightly shut, like the closed door of his heart.His red-hot eyes are like the lamps of fireflies looking for his mate. The boundless sea roared before him. The tumultuous waves talk of hidden jewels, and mock the fool who does not understand them. Perhaps now he has no hope, but he will not rest, for seeking has become his life--like the ocean stretching out its arms forever to ask for the unattainable--like the stars go round and seek A goal that can never be reached - on that lonely seaside, that disheveled lunatic still wanders in search of the philosopher's stone. One day, a village boy came up and asked. "Tell me, where did that gold chain around your waist come from?" The lunatic was startled—the chain, which had been iron, had really turned into gold; it wasn't a dream, but he didn't know when it did. He tapped his forehead frantically—when, oh, when did he succeed without knowing it? It has become a habit to pick up a pebble, touch the chain, and throw it away without seeing the change; and thus the madman found and lost the philosopher's stone. The sun was setting and the sky was golden. The madman retraces his steps to find his lost treasure.His strength was exhausted, his body was bent, and his heart was like an uprooted tree, drooping in the dust. Though the night creeps on and silences all song; though your companions go to rest and you are weary; though terror is in the darkness and the face of the sky is veiled; yet, bird, my bird Son, listen to me, don't hang your wings. This is not the shadow of the leaves in the forest, but the sea overflowing like a black dragon snake. This is not the dance of jasmine in full bloom, this is the sparkling foam. Oh, where is the green bank under the sun, where is your nest? Bird, oh, my bird, listen to me, don't hang your wings. Long nights lie by your roadside, dawns sleep behind misty mountains. The stars count the time holding their breath, and the weak moon floats in the night. Bird, oh, my bird, listen to me, don't hang your wings. For you, there is no hope here, no terror here. There are no messages here, no whispers, no calls. There is no home here, no bed to rest in. There is only your own pair of wings and a pathless sky. Bird, oh, my bird, listen to me, don't hang your wings. No one lives forever bro, nothing lasts forever.Keep that in mind and enjoy yourself while you can. Our life is not that old burden, our path is not that long journey. A single poet does not have to sing an old song. The flowers wither; but the wearer need not mourn forever. Keep this in mind, brother, and enjoy yourself while you can. There must be a complete pause in order to weave "fullness" into the music. Life descends toward its twilight, to be immersed in golden shadows. "Love" must be called back from the game, to drink the wine of sorrow, and to be born in the sky of tears. Brethren, keep this in mind and enjoy yourself while you can. We were busy picking flowers, afraid of being stolen by the passing wind. To snatch fleeting kisses that make our blood run and our eyes shine. Our lives are eager, our desires are strong, because time is ringing the bell of parting. Brethren, keep this in mind and enjoy yourself while you can. We don't have time to grasp a thing, crush it and throw it on the ground. Time passed quickly, hiding the dream under the skirt. Our life is short, only a few days to fall in love. If it is for work and labor, life becomes endlessly long. Brethren, keep this in mind and enjoy yourself while you can. Beauty is sweet to us, for she dances with the quick tunes of our lives. Knowledge is precious to us because we never have time to complete it. All is done in the eternal heaven.But the flowers of the phantasm of the earth are kept ever fresh by death. Brethren, keep this in mind and enjoy yourself while you can. I want to chase the golden stag. You may laugh, my friend, but I pursue the illusion that eludes me. I have traversed mountains and valleys, I have traveled through many nameless lands, for I will chase the golden deer.You go to the market to buy, and you go home with a full load, but when and where a wind of homelessness blows to me. I have nothing in mind; I leave everything behind. I have traversed hills and valleys, I have traveled through many nameless lands—for I am chasing the golden deer. 70 I remember in my childhood, one day I floated a paper boat in a ditch. It was a dank day in July, and I was happily playing alone. I float a paper boat in a ditch. All of a sudden, the clouds gathered, the wind howled, and the rain poured down. The muddy water overflowed like a small river and washed my boat away. I thought sadly in my heart: This storm is deliberately trying to destroy my happiness, and all its malice is directed at me. Today, the long cloudy July day, I meditate on all the games in my life where I was the loser. I complain of fate, because it has played tricks on me so often, when I suddenly remembered my paper boat sunk in the ditch. The day is not over, and the market on the river bank is not over. I fear my time is wasted, and my last penny lost. But no, my brother, I have some left.Fate didn't cheat me of everything. The deal is done. The handling fees on both sides have been collected, and it's time for me to go home. But, janitor, do you want your hard-earned money? Don't be afraid, I still have a little left.Fate didn't cheat me of everything. The sound of the wind announced the threat of a storm, and the shadows of clouds hanging low in the west heralded evil. The silent river awaits the storm. Afraid of being overtaken by the night, I hurried across the river. Oh, boatman, you charge! Yes bro, I have some left.Fate didn't cheat me of everything. A beggar sat under a tree by the roadside.Poor thing, he looks at my face with timid hope! He thought I was carrying a day's profits in abundance. Yes bro, I have a little left.Fate didn't cheat me of everything. The night was getting darker, and the road was silent.Fireflies flicker in the grass. Who is following me quietly? Heh, I know, you want to rob me of everything I have.I will not disappoint you! Because I still have some left.Fate didn't cheat me of everything. Arrived home in the middle of the night.I am empty-handed. With longing eyes, you waited for me at the door, sleepless and silent. Like a shy bird, you flew to my breast with love. Ay, ay, my God, I have much left.Fate didn't cheat me of everything. With days of hard work, I built a temple.There are no doors and windows in this temple, and the walls are built thickly with layers of stone. I forget everything, I hide from the world, I gaze raptly at the idols I have placed in their niches. It is always night inside, illuminated by lamps of sesame oil. The constant cigarettes wound my heart in a heavy spiral. I stayed up all night, carving strange figures on the wall with twisted and chaotic lines—a winged horse, a flower with a human face, a woman with limbs like snakes. I leave nowhere a thread of path through which the song of a bird, the murmur of a leaf, or the bustle of a town may enter. On the darkened dome the only sound is the echo of my praise. My mind became intense and calm, like a sharpened flame.My senses are swooning in orgy. I don't know how the time passed until a huge thunderbolt struck the temple and a sharp pain pierced my heart. The lights looked pale and ashamed; the portraits on the walls were like chained dreams, staring meaninglessly as if to hide. I looked at the idol on the altar, and I saw it smiling, and in contact with the living God, it came to life, and the night that was imprisoned by me spread its wings and flew away. The immeasurable riches are not yours, my patient black dust mother. You labor to fill the mouths of your children, but food is scarce. Your gift of joy to us is never complete. The toys you make for my children are not strong. You cannot satisfy all our desires, but can I turn my back on you for that? Your smile, with its shadow of pain, is sweet to my eyes. Your insatiable love is kind to my heart. From your breast you fed us with life and not with immortality, so your eyes are ever watchful. Years and ages you have worked with color and poetry, but your heaven is not yet built, only the melancholy of heaven. Your beautiful creation is clouded with tears. I will pour my poetry into your wordless heart and my love into your love. I will worship you with labor. I have seen your kind face, I love your sad dust, Mother Earth. In the audience hall of the world, a simple blade of grass sits on the same rug as the sun and midnight stars. And so my poetry and the music of clouds and forests have a place in the heart of the world. But, you rich man, your riches have no share in the simple splendor of the sun's joyful golden light, and the brooding moon's soft light. The blessing of the all-encompassing sky is not sprinkled upon it. When death comes, it pales and withers, and crumbles to dust. In the middle of the night, the self-proclaimed ascetic declared: "The time has come to abandon your home and pray to God. Heh, who held me in delusions for so long? " God whispered, "It's me." But the man's ears were plugged. His wife lay with the nursing child, sleeping peacefully on the other side of the bed. The man said, "Who has lied to me for so long?" The voice said again, "It's God." But he couldn't hear it. In the dream the baby cries and leans against his mother. God commanded, "Don't go, fool, don't leave your house." But he still couldn't hear. God sighed and said aggrievedly, "Why did my servant leave me and look for me everywhere?" The assembly in front of the temple is going on.It has been raining since the morning, and the day is almost over. Brighter than all crowd joy is the radiant smile of a little girl who bought a palm-leaf whistle for a penny. The shrill and joyful sound of the whistle floats above all the laughter and tumult. The endless stream of people is crowded together, the road is muddy, the river is swollen, the rain is falling, and the fields are not in the water. Deeper than all the crowd's troubles, was the trouble of a little boy--he didn't have a penny to buy the colored stick. His miserable eyes looked at the little shop, making the whole assembly of humanity pitiable. The worker from Xixiang and his wife were busy digging soil for the brick cellar. Their little daughter went to the ferry by the river; she scrubbed the pots and pans without rest. Her little brother, with his bald head and his swarthy, mud-stained body, followed her, obeyed her, and waited patiently for her on the high bank. With a bottle full of water on her back, she walked home steadily, holding the shiny copper jug ​​in her left hand, and holding the child in her right hand—she was mother's little girl, and the heavy housework made her serious. One day I saw the naked child sitting with his legs outstretched. His sister was sitting in the water, scrubbing a jug with a handful of dirt and turning it around. A fluffy lamb grazing on the river bank. It approached the child, and suddenly yelled, and the child cried out in fright. His sister put down the kettle and ran ashore. She took her brother in one arm and the lamb in the other, dividing her caress in two, and the offspring of man and animal were united in loving bond. In Mayday.The sweltering noon seemed endlessly long.The dry land gaped with thirst in the heat. When I heard a voice from the river say, "Come, my darling!" I closed the book and opened the window to look out. I saw a big buffalo with its fur covered in mud, its eyes calm, standing by the river; a young man stood in knee-high water, telling it to take a bath. I smiled with joy, and felt a sweet touch in my heart. I often think that there is no language between humans and animals, and where is the boundary of mutual understanding in their hearts. In the early morning of creation, through which simple path of Paradise in the beginning their hearts visited each other. Their kinship was long forgotten, and the symbols of their unchanging footprints were not extinguished. But suddenly, in the silent music, the vague memory came to life. The animal looked at the human face with tender trust, and the human looked into its eyes with a smile. It was as if two friends had met under a mask, vaguely recognizing each other under the disguise. With one glance you can wrest from a poet's strings all the wealth of poetry, fair woman! But you would not hear their praise, so I praise you. You can make the proudest head in the world bow at your feet. But it is the unknown people you love that you would worship, so I worship you. The touch of your perfect arms adds glory to the glory of kings. But you sweep the dust with your arms and keep your humble home tidy, and my heart is filled with admiration. Why do you whisper to me so softly, oh, "death", my "death"? When the flowers wither late and the cows return to the shed, you sneak up to me and speak words that I don't understand. Must you woo me with drowsy whispers and icy kisses to win my heart, O Death, my Death? Won't our wedding be extravagant? Won't you tie flowers on your brown curls? Is there no flag-bearer ahead of you?Have you no red torch to make the night as bright as fire, O Death, my Death? Come with your conch, come in sleepless nights. Put me in red, hold my hand tightly and marry me away. Let your chariot, with its impatient neighing horses, be ready to wait at my door. Lift my veil and look proudly at my face, O Death, my Death. We're going to play a game of "death" tonight, my bride and I. The night is dark, the clouds and haze in the sky are churning, and the waves are roaring in the sea. We leave the bed of dreams, open the door, my bride and I. We sat on a swing with the wind pushing us violently from behind. My bride, terrified and delighted, pressed herself tremblingly against my breast. For many days I served her tenderly. I made a flower bed for her, and I closed the door to keep the strong light from her eyes. I kissed her lips softly and whispered softly in her ear until she was half asleep from sleepiness. She disappeared in the vague, boundless sweet cloud. I stroked her, but she did not respond; nor did my singing wake her up. Tonight, the call of the storm comes from the wilderness. My bride stood up trembling, and she came out holding my hand. Her hair blows in the wind, her veil flutters, her garlands rustle on her bosom. The push of death shook her alive. We see each other, our hearts are bound, my bride and I. 83 She lived on the hillside beside the cornfield, near the spring that laughed and flowed through the majestic shadows of the old trees.Women carry cans here to fill water, and passers-by talk and rest here.She works and fantasizes with the gurgling spring rhyme every day. One day a stranger came down from a mountain in the clouds; her hair was disheveled like a drunken snake.We wondered: "Who are you?" He didn't answer, but sat by the noisy water, silently looking at her hut.Our hearts beat with horror.At night, we all went home. The next morning, when the women went to the spring under the cedar tree to fetch water, they found the door of her hut open, but her voice was gone, and where was her smiling face? Empty pots stood on the ground, and the lamp in the corner of her room ran out of oil and went out.No one knew where she had gone before dawn—the stranger was gone, too. In May, when the sun was growing and the snow had melted, we sat by the spring and wept.We thought to ourselves: "Is there a spring where she goes? Where can she get water in this hot and thirsty weather?" We asked anxiously, "Is there any place outside the mountain where we live?" On summer nights, when the breeze blows from the south; I sit in her empty room, where the unlighted lamp still stands.Suddenly that mountain peak disappeared from my eyes like a curtain being drawn. "Oh, that's her coming. How are you, my boy? are you happyHave you a place of shade under the uncovered sky?Pity, our spring is not here to quench your thirst. " "There is still the same sky over there," she said, "but it is not blocked by Pingshan Mountain,—it is still the same spring that grows into rivers,—and the same land stretches out into plains." "Everything is there." gone," I sighed, "only we're not here." She smiled sadly and said, "You are in my heart." I woke up to the murmur of the spring, and the rustling of fir tree leaves in the night. 84 The shadow of autumn clouds flitted across the yellow-green rice fields, behind which was the madly chasing sun. Intoxicated by the light, the bees forgot to suck the honey, and just flew and sang dumbly. The duck flocks on the island in the river were jolly and noisy for no reason. Let's not go home, brothers, let's not go to work this morning. Let us occupy the blue sky with the force of the storm, let us gallop to grab the space. Laughter floats on the air like foam on a flood. Brethren, let us waste the mornings on useless songs. Who are you, reader, reading my poems a hundred years from now? I cannot send you a flower from the wealth of spring, nor a golden shadow from the clouds in the sky. Open the door and look around. From your garden in full bloom, take the fragrant memory of flowers that died a hundred years ago. In the joy of your heart, may you feel the living joy of a spring morning singing, and carry its joyful voice through a hundred years.