Baiyue City is near the sea, and Yongjia mountains and rivers are interdependent. Hanging Luo is weak and Xiao Yu is shallow, and the rain is beautiful and delicate. Birds are shocked by endless classics, and flowers are still rare with the number of months. Fortunately, I wrote a poem with him, and this man will return here with Wang Sun.
-Tang Gengguang's Interview with Jinyun Nanling, Feng Heliu.
The life of Geng Guangxian, a poet in the Tang Dynasty, should be ups and downs. He was born in Xinye, Henan, and his brother Chang Xiu was also an official in North Korea. I don't think his family is too bad. Since the An Shi Rebellion, he was once trapped in a disorderly army, but he "escaped from a puppet official". Behind these seven words, it is impossible not to experience some hardships. He later became an assistant minister in the official department, and he must have his own hills and valleys in his chest. His "work poems" are recorded in the book, and he is especially good at writing landscapes. Unfortunately, this is the only surviving work. As for his more detailed living materials, I don't know where to find them.
Every time I read this poem, I always think of Yunnan. The city is located between the sea and mountains and rivers, as far away from the poet as we are. Only when it is far away, will you propose to go there and have a feast with your dreams, which belongs to the mountains and rivers, the feast of Hui Lanxin and the feast of past lives.
Bright sunshine shines through the gauze curtain, flashing the luster of blue and white porcelain, and shoots into the air-conditioned room. According to Old Town of Lijiang, there are brick and wood houses in the picture. Clean as a whistle, I heard the knocking of high heels, and the monotonous and crisp voice was careful, for fear of waking up those pictures. Those who hover from the foot of the slate roadway to the eaves of the blue tile collide back and forth, shaking the past, the illusory reality and the immature picture in the story. Your smile comes step by step, and joy is tangible and intangible, just like this trickle, which runs through all the stories.
The snow-capped mountains in the background, which we and the poet have never seen before, make the birds stunning and majestic, standing in the sun, bright and solemn. The shadow of the brim is high and low, and the sweat is crystal clear. Let your eyes pity you and look around at the vicissitudes of life reflected in thousands of years. So the breath that has been suffocated by the noise of the city for many years finally rises freely, and is closer to eternal life than ever before.
The hanging flowers are weak and the tiles are shallow, hiding a simple and kind family of Naxi people. Walking through Sifang Street and Dashiqiao, there are flowers everywhere. The poet has never been to the south of the cloud all his life. He doesn't know that the flowers that bloom every month are not as sparse as he thought.
Holding hands, wandering in the bar street, counting a string of red lanterns, it is destined to rain, which dances with the sunshine on the horizon. Along the branches of the green radish, along the tip of the thin bamboo pole, bit by bit. Hanging a graceful crystal bead curtain to isolate the world will cast some eternal significance on the originally peaceful dream. The cool breeze suddenly rises, and under the umbrella you hold up, the warmth is still silent, never leaving, and permeates Qiu Xiangse's skirt.
When the light curtain of cooking smoke is opened, the bead curtain of rain will be put away, and nature's random demonstration here is particularly attractive.
It must be very late to return to the residential inn. The fragrance is floating in the summer air, with some unexpected exaggerated coolness. This night is still very young, Naxi old people hold out dark brown tight strips, and old hands pick old white tea. The mysterious pot-making tradition of leaving fragrance for a hundred years tells the story of Dongba or Gobawen, which is as mysterious as graphics but passionate, about the rise and fall, birth and seclusion of this city.
I don't know where the smoothness of Naxi ancient music came from, but I was reluctant to part for a night and was graceful.
So far away. You said I would go one day. All dreams will come true as long as you remember and believe. Take your poems and my songs, and walk into Baiyue City and Yongjia Landscape to catch those scattered notes.
This article is recommended by the special topic "Sunshine Sun" founded outside the city.
Editor of this article: zero point one, Yi Yi
Editor-in-Chief: Sunshine Sun outside the city