April is the day when Xiaobo died. I am reminded of a poem by the English poet Eliot: April is the cruelest month. This poem is from The Waste Land. I have seen it in the past, but I just feel strange: what is the poet trying to express? Why is April the cruelest month? Why not July? Why not1February? It doesn't sound like rational judgment. But the poet must have felt something.
After Xiaobo's death, this poem suddenly exploded in my ear, which made me feel unprecedented shock and mystery. Shocked, I carefully pondered the meaning of this poem, and I felt a little vague in my heart. I think the poet's feelings about April may be: Spring returns to the earth, everything revives, new life desperately breaks ground and sprouts, destroys all species with weak vitality with his blind and vigorous vitality, and grows and blooms in despair, which makes people feel sad about everything that has passed away while admiring their own strength. So the poet said: April is the cruelest month.
These days, poplars and willows in Beijing have sprouted, first spring flowers, then peach blossoms, and then cherry blossoms. The whole city exudes a colorful and cruel atmosphere. A week ago, I was walking on the road, looking at the green trees and red flowers, thinking, nine years ago today, when Xiaobo had only seven days left in his life, did he know? Did he feel it? Today, I am walking on the road again, thinking about today nine years ago. Xiaobo sent me the last email from Cambridge University in England. He wrote: Beijing is sunny and sunny. I'm going to see the houses in the suburbs. But the next morning, his life drifted away. How cruel it was to him in his prime. How cruel this is to me. If I were Eliot, how could I not say: April is the cruelest month!
Xiaobo left me cruelly in this cruel April. Now, he is in a place where he is separated from the body and only the spirit is left. He is far from all worldly things. He is far away from all the beauty and ugliness in the world. He is far away from love, family, and my yearning for him, and he has become a lonely soul. He looks down on us. He looked down on everything he once loved.
Fortunately, he left some flashing words. As Xiao Bo once wrote when he was young, "This is the best moment in my life. I stand on that threshold. From now on, I will be connected with eternity ... because I am sure that I won, and those burning words appeared in front of my eyes and roared in my ears ..." I think that was the joyful experience when he felt that he had written some words that could really last forever. Xiaobo continued to use his words to save his life. In fact, he is not those who have passed away, but he is singing and growing happily in this cruel April.