I drank too much wine on the shore of Taihu Lake. The mind returns to its truest state. The words melt in the rain, like a dream, and everything is floating. The ancient town is just an expression. And its eyes. Crossing the south, you will encounter hallucinations. Suddenly, I came to Sarajevo again. Looking for sabina. As if looking for a theme.
More than ten years ago, I met sabina in the ancient Romanian city of Arjesse. We also participated in a poetry festival, strolled and chatted in the rain, and we read one poem after another together, all in our own mother tongue. Mother tongue can reveal the inner breath best. Mother tongue makes us all vivid and natural. She told me that her hometown is a small town in the east of Bosnia and Herzegovina, which means it will rain when it rains, depending on which cloud is floating in the sky. She said that in childhood and adolescence, she often walked in the rain, which was really gentle and poetic. Suddenly, in tears, she said intermittently, "I haven't felt such tenderness for a long time." My disaster-stricken motherland is always full of endless conflicts and wars. Sometimes, I really want to leave there. But where can I go? I really envy you, having a strong motherland. China, the mysterious East. I often use words to imagine. "Later, she talked about Li Bai and Wang Wei that she had read, and the Great Wall and Yang Zijiang that she imagined. Is Yang Zijiang really blue? She also asked me. At that moment, deep down, there was a soft emotion fluctuating. However, there is no commitment. A few days later, the poetry festival was over, and we said goodbye, not knowing when we would meet again. I also sent some letters and received her photos. Later, when I published the collection of essays "Prague, the Stone Road of Lanyu", I attached an article to her photo. I wanted to invite her when I attended the Qinghai Lake International Poetry Festival the year before last. I want her to see the Great Wall and Qinghai Lake, and I want her to know more about China poets. I sent several emails, but I never received a reply. Some vague worries flashed through my mind and turned into greetings: sabina, are you okay?
Sabina, are you okay? In the distance, this greeting seems weak and pale. Distance exists objectively. Nothing you can do can stop it.
Therefore, my trip to Sarajevo, in my subconscious, is accompanied by my spiritual mission: to find sabina. I brought my own book with her picture on it. I asked Senadin. I also asked Hashidai, director of the poetry festival organizing Committee. They all froze at first, and then vaguely replied, I don't know where she went during the war. I never saw her again anyway.
War, a huge suspense, a boundless shadow. In war, anything can happen. Don't! Don't! Sabina will be fine. She just went somewhere. I comforted myself and blessed her.
In fact, during the Sarajevo Poetry Festival, we all wanted to know, but we were afraid to ask those years. After all, it was a wound. But in a small talk, Duchamp somehow took the initiative to talk about that topic. "For three years, there was no water, electricity and heating in winter. You can imagine how difficult it is. " Duchamp gave a wry smile and fell silent.
Many things in the besieged city are beyond imagination. The Balkans is really chaotic. Mazor, a British historian, asked in his book "The Balkans, the Misunderstood European Powder Magazine": "The racial mixing in the Balkans has obviously existed for many centuries, and most of the time, there is no racial conflict at all; Then why have all kinds of political factors become turbulent in the last century or two? " Integration, coexistence and tolerance have always been the charm of Sarajevo. But the balance is still broken. Politics complicates everything. Religion has also lost its independence. Whatever the reason, in conflicts and wars, it is always ordinary people who suffer. Senadin told me that during the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina, tens of thousands of people were killed and hundreds of thousands of people left their homes. Walking in Sarajevo, I found so many cemeteries. Everywhere is on the hillside. It's in the landscape. In those days, those snipers were lying in ambush on the hillside. Karen, a Canadian poetess, said: I have never seen so many cemeteries in other cities. Bullets flew out of the landscape, crushing the face and soul of the city. Can the face be trimmed and the soul restored?
I heard cello music in a trance. I looked back, as if I saw the man sitting on the ruins again, playing the sad song that made people cry. The cellist of Sarajevo, a citizen of Sarajevo, played for 22 dead compatriots for two hours every day for 22 consecutive days. These 22 compatriots were killed by shells while waiting in line to buy bread. The cellist mourned in his own way. Not just mourning. Mourning transcends mourning itself. In fact, the cellist is expressionless when playing. He devoted himself to music. While he was playing, gunshots sounded from time to time, but they were drowned out by the sound of the piano. At this time, there was only the sound of the piano. The sound of the piano permeates people's hearts. This is a true story, which happened during the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina. According to this story, a Canadian writer wrote a novel Cellist in Sarajevo. Walking in the streets of Sarajevo, I suddenly remembered this story and this novel. Sabina, I shouted softly. No reply. What is the connection between sabina and the cellist at this moment? I was thinking.
Deep in the soul, the piano is melodious, and a melody echoes repeatedly.