Chapter 16 student years poetry

We are transients. We are only willing to be the ever-changing river, flowing through day and night, caves and churches, while we are busy and thirsty for eternity. We fill, we fill, we never cease, but we have no homeland, happy or poor, we are always on the way, we are strangers, neither field nor plow, we have no harvest. We don't know what God wants us to be, God treats us like clay in the palm of his hand, can be molded, can't laugh, cry and make a sound, God kneads, but never tempers with fire. One day it will be solidified into a solid stone! Forever! We long for it eternally, yet all that is left of us is fear, we are always on the way, never resting.

Eternally convinced and simple people certainly do not tolerate our eternal questioning. The world is flat, they simply assert that the so-called depth is just a fabricated myth. How can a person live securely if there really is another scale besides the two familiar ones? How can we not worry that the end is coming? In order to obtain peace and quiet, let us erase a measure! If the convinced simple is right, and the deep-eyed are dangerous, let the third measure also be blotted out. But we secretly yearn for… Elegant, full of spirituality, graceful and luxurious, our life is like a fairy spinning around nothingness, for this soft dance, we dedicate our present and existence.

Our dreams are beautiful, our games are lovely, where the breaths are fragrant and the notes are harmonious, and deep within the sunny exterior burns a fire longing for night and blood and wild fire. We spin in the void, safe from disaster, we live at ease, ready to play, but we secretly yearn for reality, for birth, for reproduction, for suffering, for death. Sometimes we pick up a pen and write down some symbols on white paper. Everyone knows what the symbols mean, and our game has its own rules. If a savage or a man from the moon comes and takes the paper cultivated in ancient style and examines it curiously under his nose, a strange and strange world will greet him, a magic hall full of rare pictures.

He will regard A and B as human beings and beasts, as living eyes, tongues and limbs. He sometimes stops and hesitates, and sometimes walks in a hurry, just like a crow jumping and walking on the snow, he runs, he stays, and he flies with the symbols , through the frozen black symbol, it seems to see all the images of creation; Through the decorative pattern composed of letters, it seems to see love burning and pain trembling. He may be amazed, laughing, weeping and shocked, because behind this fence of words he sees the whole world bowing to their pressure, the world shrinking, shrinking and deforming among the symbols, the letters dying like fugitives Running, everyone looks alike, because life and death, desire and distress, have become indistinguishable brothers...

Yesterday, the fruit of thought thousands of years ago, still glorious and awe-inspiring, today suddenly fades, withers and becomes meaningless, like a dead leaf falling from a vine. People have erased all marks. The center of gravity of the magic power escaped from the house, and the house crashed and decayed, and the harmonious music became an eternal echo. The face of the wise old man we once respected and loved will also wrinkle and deform. The light of wisdom disappears at the moment of death, and only the lost game remains trembling. Even when we are in high spirits, we will be unconsciously unhappy, as if we have already sat in our hearts, predicting that everything will always rot, wither and die.

Even in this abominable valley of death, the flames of longing for immortality are endless. Although we suffer, we are indestructible, subdue the god of death, and let ourselves belong to immortality. He sits hunched over, holding colored glass balls, his toy. The land around him was barren, ravaged by war and disaster, with ivy growing on the ruins and buzzing with bees. A soft hymn pierces the drowsy peace and rings through the world, the still old world. An old man is sitting and playing with his colored balls. Use blue here and white there, choose a big one and choose a small one. The glass ball game is a proper match.

He was a great victor in the game of signs, learned many arts, mastered many languages, made him travel around the world, familiarized him with the world, made him famous far and wide, surrounded by students and colleagues to the poles of the earth, without interruption. Now he is old and lonely, and has become a redundant person. There are no young people to pray for blessings, and no colleagues to invite him to participate in debates. Everything is in the past, together with the temple, the library, the school of Castalia, nothing exists anymore... The old man is resting on the ruins, holding a glass ball, a pictographic symbol, once brilliant, but now it is just a piece of colored glass.

The glass ball rolled down from the old hands, and disappeared in the sand without a sound... The silence froze... Darkness reigns over all... A beam of light shoots out from the jagged gaps in the clouds, comes from the invisible nothingness and enters the mysterious world, it penetrates day and night, builds an ideal space, makes peaks, ridges, slopes and deep wells stand out, makes the vast space blue, and makes the deep earth thick. The beam powerfully splits merit and war, the beam splits the budding harvest in two, illuminating an astonishing world. Where the seed of light lands, everything changes, the world is in order, and music sings, praising life and the victory of light.

The light beam moves forward with divine power, injects power into all cosmic creatures, and awakens the divine spirit with great power. It enters human mourning, language, art and song, and the worlds overlap into the sacred arch of the cathedral, which is human desire, spirit, struggle, joy and love. During a short stay in a monastery in the mountains, when the monks were all going to pray, I stepped into a hall where books were displayed. In the twilight of twilight I saw, along the walls, thousands of parchment spines, with wondrous inscriptions gleaming on them. With ecstasy, I couldn't wait to take down the book close to me: "The Final Stage is Seeking the Square in the Circle".

I thought, take it away and read it! Another book came into view, a leather-bound quarto with a small gold lettering on the spine: "If Adam also ate the other tree..." Another tree? what tree? It is the tree of life! Will Adam be immortal? Or futile? So I know why I am here. Another large volume came into view, folio, with rainbow lights shining from spines, corners and sections. The hand-painted cover states the title of the book: "Color and sound complement each other. Proof: Every color and hue is an answer to the associated tone. " Oh, what a moving and sparkling chorus of colours!

Every time I pick up a book, it arouses my reverie: this is the library of heaven. All the questions that make my heart agitated, and the intertwined problems in my mind, have the answers here, and there is also bread for every spiritual longing. I only glanced at it inquiringly, and the book returned a promising title. Here is prepared for all calamities, here is all the fruit that satisfies knowledge, from the timid demands of the schoolboy to the daring quests of any master. The deepest and purest thoughts are offered here, providing answers for every kind of wisdom, poetry and science. With magical powers, clefs and lexical interpretations questioned, books of incomparable mystery promise their patrons the most beautiful spiritual essence. Here are the keys to any puzzles and secrets, a boon to every one who visits the magical hour. With trembling hands, I put such a lovely book on the sloping desk, and I recognized those mysterious graphic characters, yes, just like people often happily recite an article in their dreams that we have never learned. Then I fly straight up to the stars, my soul travels with the signs of the zodiac. Here, all nations reveal their observations and their thousands of years of world experience. Here, everything is harmoniously converging in new relationships, and old cognitions, insights, images and discoveries are constantly flowing and updating on a higher and new level. , Let me walk through all the ways of human beings again in a few minutes or hours of reading. They send me the oldest and freshest information and merge with my deepest consciousness. I read and looked at the images formed by the inscriptions, which converged and separated, piled up again, arranged in a circle, scattered one after another, gathered again into a new figure, and became a kaleidoscope with infinite deep meaning. Contains inexhaustible new meanings. I took my eyes off the book and took a break, for I was dizzy from looking at it. That's when I realized I wasn't the only guest. An old man stands in the hall, facing the books, maybe he is the archivist. I saw that he was earnestly busy with his work, and why he was so eagerly involved with books, and this aroused my rare desire to inquire about the nature and purpose of his work. I saw the old man take out a book with his aging hands, read the text on the spine, and breathe heat towards the title of the book with his pale lips--a title with such an attractive title is undoubtedly an interesting book worth reading. Book! But then he wiped the spine of the book lightly with his fingers, and filled in another title with a slight smile, which was quite different from the original one. He wandered about, picking up one here, another there, erasing the title and filling in another. I stared blankly at him for a long time, completely ignorant of the meaning of his work, and turned my gaze back to the book I had just read a few lines, but I could no longer make out the pictograms, and the images that had fascinated me just now had disappeared. without a trace. The symbolic world, the allegorical world that I haven't had time to savor, is escaping. It wobbled and twirled, as if rapidly shrinking, melting, and fading away, returning to the shimmering gray of blank parchment. I felt a hand resting on my shoulder, and when I looked up, the old man was standing beside me, so I quickly stood up. He smiled slightly and took my book. I shuddered as his fingers sponged across the spine, writing new titles on the blank parchment, and new questions and hopes, and the latest variants on many old puzzles. He finished his letters carefully, picked up the book and pen silently and disappeared. In ancient times, a virtuous king ruled the country. The fields, crops and plows were all bathed in the light of grace. There was a time for sacrifices, and there was a law for measurement. Ordinary people knew that it was difficult to live forever, so they longed for the invisible justice, so that the sun and the moon could be in harmony and balance forever. Let the body bathed in eternal light know neither pain nor the world of death. The divine descendants of the gods have long since left, leaving behind lonely human beings, immersed in desire and pain, ignorant of real life, and ignorant of infinite development and growth. Yet the message of true life has never been extinguished, and in our sunken posts we continue to stand in awe of the divine admonition from symbols, games, and poetry. Maybe one day, the darkness will disappear, maybe one day, time will turn back, and the sun will once again be our God, accepting the dedication of our hands again. After years of hard thinking and research, an old man has refined his masterpiece of old age, and countless wonderful wisdom is playing in the curvy ivy tendril-like pages. A passionate, hard-working student, digging in libraries and archives, fueled by ambition, writes the first book of brilliant youth. A child sits, straw in hand, and he inhales enough to blow out a string of colored bubbles, each one brilliant like a hymn, into which he blows his soul. Three people, the old man, the student and the child, are creating bubbles of the Mayan world, magical illusions, useless. The Eternal Light acknowledges it with a smile, and burns brighter with joy. In our eyes, life once conformed to the truth, the world was orderly, thoughts were clear and clear, and wisdom and knowledge had not yet been split in two. They lived a complete and happy life. Those ancient people, whether it was Plato or Chinese sages, their wise words spread all over the world. Every time we enter the sanctuary of Aquinas and read this apologetic book with delight, a world of sweet ripeness comes before us and greets us from afar, this world of truth, where all is bright, where nature and spirit meet, Man comes from God and returns to God, law and order are bound in beautiful forms, and a complete individual without gaps is established. However, as the younger generation, we are doomed to struggle, to wander in the wilderness, to doubt, and to ridicule bitterly, and to endure the torment of longing throughout our lives. However, our children and grandchildren will one day fall into a situation similar to ours. They will rise from us, calling us blessed and wise, and to their ears the chaotic noise of our life is the harmonious echo of history, a fable of extinguished tales of calamity and strife. Those of us who are least self-confident and most skeptical may, perhaps, leave their marks in their day, and young people will look up to them as pioneers. Those who doubt the pain of their own confession may be admired as happy, those who know no fear and trouble, who make life their amusement, whose pleasure is only that of a child. For we also have an eternal mind within us, and call all spirits of the age brothers: you and I perish, but it lives forever. Just like flowers wither, youth will grow old, every stage of life has flowers in full bloom, every wisdom, every virtue has once shined, but it cannot last forever. Our hearts must heed the call of life, always ready to see off the old and welcome the new, to sacrifice ourselves courageously, without sorrow, to another new duty. Every beginning contains magical powers that will protect us and help us survive. We happily travel through one space after another, we never stick to any kind of local concept, the spirit of the universe makes us unfettered, it encourages us to climb up and go far. When our life journey is a little stable, the comfortable life will relax the will. Only those who are always ready to start can overcome the habit of laziness. Perhaps in our dying moments, we will be transported into entirely new realms, where the calling of life is truly inexhaustible... Come, my heart, let's bid a happy farewell! We are always ready to listen to the voice of the universe and the music of the master in silence, and we summon the great minds of the age of genius in a celebration of purity and elegance. We allow the mysterious power to lift us up, this magic boundless format, containing all horizons, storms and life, ruling all things in a clear metaphor. The twelve signs of the zodiac sound crisp and clear. Serving the constellations is the meaning of our life. No star will leave its own domain, and they are always operating in a sacred orbit.