Chapter 18 nostalgia

The sound of the flute is like clouds floating in the sky, and like flowing water circling the earth. In the resplendent concert hall, the colored lights were extinguished one by one. In the almost transparent darkness, the gem-like lamps were lit one after another, as if a hand was drawing a bright path in the depths of the night. It leads to the distant hometown deep in people's hearts. The old year is coming to an end soon, and the new year is walking towards the bell, wearing red clothes. The applause is like a tide, and after a wave is not flat, a wave rises again.The musician took a deep bow, and what rose in his heart like smoke was not only the sadness of the years, but also the joy of the world.

And that little hole flute also has a small heart, an indescribable desire slowly rising, like a ball of fire, burning blazingly.As the night deepened, there was a song lingering in its heart, slowly accumulating strength, from one Xiaodong to another Xiaodong.In the middle of the night, in the darkness where you can't see your fingers, a clear song came out of the silk case. The song reached the ears of the musician, and the musician began to have strange dreams. He dreamed that he had come to the end of the road, and at the end of the road was the glass castle.All the houses are made of gray glass, the windows are blue glass, the roads are blue glass, and every house is lit with glass lanterns.The store is full of glass clothes and glass shoes, the cake shop is filled with all kinds of glass cakes and pancakes, and the fruit shop is full of glass fruits.The musician walked from the east city to the west city, and walked past trees beside the glass road... In the evening, the musician came to a restaurant, and he ate a piece of glass cake, a glass apple, and a bowl of thin glass noodles—floating yellow and orange glass meatballs.After eating, he was very tired: "Ah, I have never been so tired!" He walked and walked on the glass street, and walked and walked.

The musician wakes up in the dark and hears his flute crying. "I want to go home." Dong Xiao said. "Me too." The musician was silent for a long time, and finally opened the window. When he opened the window, he saw a white horse galloping among the vast sea of ​​clouds. The musicians put on the flute and climbed into the sky from the window sill.The clouds in the middle of the night were mysterious and quiet, and there was a white horse walking towards them in the vast sea of ​​clouds.The white horse is docile and pure, lowering its head and biting the musician's clothes, as if sending a gentle invitation.

The musician stood up and mounted the white horse.The white horse jumped up, stepped on the white clouds under its feet, and ran into the wind.The musicians are sitting on horseback, and the chaotic clouds are passing by in front of them. The white horse ran and ran, falling from the sky to the forest, it ran over one hill after another.One mountain is covered with snow, another with blooming spring flowers, another with lush greenery, and another with yellow leaves flying—the next one is still snowed with snow. The white horse’s journey is just like the seasons, spring, summer, autumn and winter, back and forth.The white horse gallops in the river of time, and the musicians are amazed to see the long hair of time, like silver willow silk, fluttering in the wind.

After running for an unknown amount of time, the white horse stopped on the roof tiles.The musician recognized it, and this was the roof of the hometown.The musician jumped off the horse, stood on the roof, jumped off the roof again, and stood in front of the gate of the hometown. When his feet touched the soil of his hometown, a warm water flowed from the blood of the earth into the Yongquan point on the sole of his feet. The musicians burst into tears. Hot tears merged into rivers under my feet. He conveniently put the hole flute in his hand on the wet soil beside the water. On the wet soil of the hometown, the bamboos of childhood grew, one, two, three, one after another, holding hands, along the river bank of the hometown, and grew into a stretch of green bamboo forest.

Thus, the nostalgia that was dyed white by snowflakes was dyed the color of the bamboo forest again—green, green nostalgia!