Chapter 50 what!wind

Sometimes you sing and laugh; sometimes you lament and cry.We can hear you.but not your face: of you we are aware, but not seen.You seem to be the ocean of love, drowning our souls and soothing our peaceful hearts. You rise when you encounter mountains, descend when you encounter valleys, and stretch out in the wilderness, mighty and mighty.When it rises, you can see your fortitude and perseverance; when it falls, you can see your humility and comity; when it stretches, it shows your lightness.sensitive.You are like a noble and benevolent king, who is amiable to the weak and humble, but majestic to the arrogant and strong.

In autumn, in the mountains.You cry like hell.The trees also weep along with you; in winter, when you are furious, the whole person is naturally angry with you; in spring, you are weak and sick, but the fields wake up because of you; in summer, you put on a mask of tranquility, but we think it is The sun shot you dead with an arrow and wrapped your body in its heat.However, in the opening of autumn, are you crying, or is it because you stripped the trees naked, watching them shy and laughing in the winter days, are you wide-eyed.Still dancing around the snow-covered grave at night, in the spring day.Are you weak and powerless, or are you like a passionate girl.I want to rouse the long-lost lover—youth in the four seasons—from sleep with a mournful sigh. In the summer days, are you a zombie, or are you wandering among the fruit trees, grape vines, and threshing grounds? Sleep for a while?

You have brought the smell of disease from the poor streets and alleys, and the fragrance of flowers from the plateau and mountains.This is like those broad-minded people who quietly endured the pain of life and quietly treated the joy of life. You said something weird to Rosebud.But the flower actually understands their meaning, so it trembles all over for a while, and smiles brightly for a while.This is exactly what God does with the human soul. You take your time here.There, it is in a hurry, and in the third place, it is running, galloping, and never stopping.This is like the human mind, when it is still, it dies, and when it moves, it lives.

You write—lines of verse on the lake, and then scribble them out.It's no different from those hesitant poets, when you come from the south.Hot as love; when you come from the north, you are cold as death; when you come down from the east, you are gentle like the caress of a soul; when you come down from the west, you are as cold and fierce as hatred.Are you as capricious as the years?Or messengers in all directions, how they charge you.So tell us what you did in the desert in your rage.It is so cruel to ravage the caravan.Then you buried them under the barren sand.Is this still you——that invisible airflow slowly rises from the branches and leaves along with the morning light, and then quietly floods the field like a dream.The valley, where the flowers tremble with love for you.Swaying, the grass smells your breath.Then he danced and danced like a drunk.

You lost your temper on the ocean, and you made the calm sea so angry that it was so rough that it chased after you, opened its huge mouth, and swallowed countless ships and lives all at once.Is this still you—you are so naughty and affectionate, gently stroking the little braids of the girls running around the house. Where are you rushing to with our souls, our sighs, our breath? Where will you take our joyous songs and laughter? How will you deal with the sparks in our hearts? Are they all taken out of the world, behind Xia Ni, or do you want to drag them into those terrible deep valleys as prey; in the cave, throw them away at will, and let them disappear? At times, the eyes make you tremble with fear.The feeling of the heart, the discovery of the eyes, have you ever forgotten that under your wings, you carry the cries of the poor and the pity of the orphans.The lament of the widow; in the folds of your clothes, there is the longing of the traveler, the lament of the abandoned child, and the cry of the firework girl's heart.Whether you keep all these little people handed over to you, or is it like this earth, what we give it, it will become a part of itself.Do you hear these cries and cries, or are you just like those tyrants and dignitaries, people reach out to them for mercy, but they dismiss them, people call to them, but they pretend not to hear?Wind, lifeblood of the hearer: do you hear these voices?