Moonlight over the Lotus Pond - Classic Chinese Lyrical Prose
My heart has been quite uneasy these days. Tonight, I was sitting in the yard enjoying the shade, and suddenly I thought of the lotus pond I walked by every day. It must have a different look under the light of the full moon. The moon was gradually rising, and the laughter of the children on the road outside the wall could no longer be heard; my wife was patting Runer (1) in the house and humming a lullaby in a daze. I quietly put on my coat, closed the door and went out.
Along the lotus pond, there is a winding small cinder road. This is a secluded road; few people walk it during the day, and it is even more lonely at night. There are many trees growing around the lotus pond, which are lush and lush (wěng). On one side of the road are some willows and some trees whose names I don’t know. On a moonless night, the road was eerie and a little scary. Tonight is very good, although the moonlight is still faint.
I was the only one on the road, walking with my hands behind my back. This world seemed to belong to me; I also seemed to have transcended my ordinary self and entered another world. I love excitement as well as tranquility; I love being in groups as well as being alone. Like tonight, a person can think about anything and think about nothing alone under this vast moonlight, and he feels like a free person. Whatever you must do or say during the day can be ignored now. This is the beauty of being alone. Let me just enjoy the boundless lotus fragrance and moonlight.
On the surface of the winding and twisting lotus pond, one can look out for fields (4) of leaves. The leaves are high out of the water, like the skirts of a graceful dancer. Among the layers of leaves, white flowers are dotted here and there, some are blooming gracefully, some are holding their flowers shyly; just like a bunch of bright pearls, or like a flower in the blue sky. The stars are like a beauty just out of the bath. The breeze passed by, bringing wisps of fragrance, like the faint singing from a tall building in the distance. At that time, the leaves and flowers also trembled slightly, like lightning, which immediately spread across the lotus pond. The leaves were densely packed side by side, and it looked like (6) a ripple of solid blue. Under the leaves are veins of running water (mò) (7), which are covered and some colors cannot be seen; but the leaves are more beautiful (8).
The moonlight is like flowing water, quietly flowing on this leaf and flower. Thin green mist floats in the lotus pond. The leaves and flowers seem to have been washed in milk; they are also like a dream wrapped in a veil. Although it was a full moon, there was a thin layer of clouds in the sky, so it couldn't shine brightly; but I thought this was just the right thing - a sound sleep is essential, but a nap also has its own flavor. The moonlight shines through the trees, and the dense shrubs at high places cast jagged and mottled black shadows (9), as steep as ghosts; the sparse shadows of the curved willows (10) look like paintings. On the lotus leaf. The moonlight in the pond is not uniform; but the light and shadow have a harmonious melody, like the famous song played by the Fan Wu Ling (11).
On all sides of the lotus pond, far and near, there are trees high and low, among which willows are the most numerous. These trees surrounded a lotus pond; only a few gaps were left on the side of the path, as if they were specially left for the moonlight. The color of the tree (12) is gloomy, and at first glance it looks like a cloud of smoke; but the beauty of the willow (13) can also be seen in the smoke. Faintly looming above the treetops are distant mountains, just a general outline. There are one or two street lights leaking through the cracks in the trees, looking listless like sleepy eyes. The liveliest sounds at this time were the cicadas chirruping on the trees and the frogs croaking in the water; but the excitement was theirs and I enjoyed nothing.
Suddenly I remembered the lotus picking thing. Picking lotus is an old custom in the south of the Yangtze River. It seems to have existed very early, and it was most popular during the Six Dynasties. We can roughly know it from poetry. Those who picked lotuses were young women. They went in boats and sang erotic songs (14). Needless to say, there are many people picking lotus, and there are also people watching lotus picking. It was a lively season and also a romantic (15) season. Emperor Yuan of the Liang Dynasty (16) said it well in "Fu on Picking Lotus":
So the enchanting girl Yuàn (yuàn) made a boating wish (17); the hawk (yì) head (18) Xu returned, It is also said that the feather cup; 湣 (zhào) (19) will move and the algae will hang, and the boat will move but it will sail. Her waist is slender and her clothes are tied tightly, and her steps are delayed; at the beginning of summer and spring, when the leaves are tender and the flowers are blooming, she smiles for fear of getting her clothes wet, and pulls her clothes back for fear of capsizing the boat (jū) (20).
It can be seen that there was a lot of fun at that time. This is really interesting stuff, but unfortunately we are no longer blessed with it.
Then I remembered the sentence in "Xizhou Song" (21):
In autumn, the lotus flowers in Nantang are more than human heads; I lower my head to get the lotus seeds, which are as clear as water.
If there are lotus pickers tonight, the lotus flowers here will be considered "outstanding"; just some shadows of running water will not do. This makes me miss Jiangnan after all. ——Thinking like this, I raised my head suddenly and found that I was already in front of my own door. I pushed the door gently and walked in. There was no sound. My wife had been asleep for a long time.
Listen to the cold rain
As soon as the Waking of Insects passes, the spring cold intensifies. First the weather is steep, and then the rainy season begins, sometimes drenching, sometimes pattering, the sky is tidal and the ground is so wet, even in a dream, it seems like there is an umbrella holding it. And just with an umbrella, you can escape a burst of cold rain, but you can't escape the entire rainy season. Even the thoughts are moist. Going home every day, I zigzag through the labyrinth of alleys from Kinmen Street to Xiamen Street. Walking into the rainy and windy weather makes me even more imaginative.
Thinking about Taipei looking so miserable is like a black and white film. Thinking about the entire history of China is nothing more than a black and white film. It rained like this from the beginning to the end of the film. I wonder if this feeling comes from Antonioni. But that piece of land has been missing for a long time. Twenty-five years and a quarter of a century, even if it rains, it is separated by thousands of mountains and thousands of umbrellas. In the past twenty-five years, everything has been cut off. Only the climate and weather reports are still involved. A big cold wave rolled in from that land. I share this coldness with the ancient continent. You can't throw yourself into her arms, and being swept by the hem of her skirt can be regarded as comforting your admiration.
When I think about it this way, I feel a little warm in the severe cold. When thinking this way, he hoped that these long and narrow alleys could extend forever, and his thoughts could also be extended, not from Kinmen Street to Xiamen Street, but from Kinmen to Xiamen. He is from Xiamen, at least from Xiamen in the broadest sense. For the past twenty years, he has not lived in Xiamen, but has lived in Xiamen Street, which can be considered a mockery or a comfort. But when it comes to broad sense, he is also from Jiangnan, Changzhou, Nanjing, Sichuan baby, and Wuling boy. Apricot blossoms and spring rain in the south of the Yangtze River, that was his boyhood. It will be Qingming Festival in half a month. Antonioni's camera pans back and forth. It's like the remaining water in the mountains. The emperor, the queen, and the earth are like this. People from the north to the south of Guizhou are like this. Is that China? Of course, China will always be China. It’s just that the spring rain of apricot blossoms is no longer there, the shepherd boy’s distant fingers are no more, and the drizzle at Jianmen is no more and the light dust in Weicheng is no more. But where is the land that he thinks about day and night?
In the headlines of newspapers? Or is it the rumors in Hong Kong? Or Fu Cong’s black and white keys or Ma Sicong’s jumping bow plucking? Or is it Antonioni's vision of the end of the mirror? Or, on the walls and glass cabinets of the Palace Museum, the rhythm of Taibai and Dongpo in the sound of gongs and drums of Peking Opera?
Almond blossom. Spring rain. Jiangnan. Six square characters, maybe the piece of soil is inside. No matter whether Chixian, China or China, changes come and go, as long as Cangjie’s inspiration never dies and the beautiful Chinese language never gets old, the centripetal force of the image’s magnet will surely remain. Because a square character is a world. There are words in the beginning, so the memories and hopes of the ancestors of the Han people have sustenance. For example, if you write the word "rain" out of thin air, bit by bit, drizzle, patter, all the clouds and rain will appear in it. How can English, Japanese or Russian satisfy this kind of visual beauty? When you open a book called "Ci Yuan" or "Ci Hai", metal, wood, water, fire, and earth each form a world. Once you enter the "Rain" part, you can see the ever-changing sky of ancient China, including beautiful frost, snow, clouds, and terrifying clouds. Thunder, lightning, and hail all reveal God’s good and bad tempers. The weather station is full of encyclopedias that laymen can’t understand.
Listen to the cold rain. Look at that cold rain. Sniff, smell, that cold rain, lick, that cold rain. The rain fell on his umbrella, on the umbrellas of millions of people in this city, on the raincoats, on the houses, on the antennas. It rained on the boat in Keelung Port in the Breakwater Strait, and it was the Qingming rain in this season. Yu is a woman and should be the most emotional. The rain is misty and psychedelic. If you smell it carefully, it will be refreshing and fresh. It has a hint of mint. When it is strong, it will give off the unique fishy smell after bathing in grass and woods. Maybe it is the smell of earthworms and snails. , after all, it was the awakening of insects. Maybe the life on the ground and underground, maybe the layers of memories in ancient China are all stupid and crawling, maybe it's the subconsciousness and dreams of plants, that fishy smell.
I went to the United States for the third time and lived in the high mountains of Denver for two years. The western part of the United States is mountainous and desert-ridden, with thousands of miles of drought. The sky is as blue as the eyes of an Anglo-Saxon, the ground is as red as the skin of an Indian, and the clouds are rare white birds. The Rocky Mountains are clustered dazzlingly. On the snowy peaks, there are few clouds and fog. The first is high, the second is dry, and the third is above the forest line, where cedars and cypresses stop. The meaning of "strata clouds growing in the chest" or "shanglue dusk rain" in Chinese poetry is a rare sight in the Rocky Mountains. The victory of the Rocky Mountains lies in the stone and the snow. Those strange rocks and rocks, stacked on top of each other, create a thrilling sculpture exhibition for the sun and the thousands of miles of wind to see. The snow was so white that it was illusory, so cold that it was clear and sober. The overwhelming momentum of the snow made it difficult to breathe, and made people feel cold and sore. However, to appreciate the realm of "the white clouds look back and merge, and the blue mist enters to see nothingness", you still have to come to China. Taiwan has a very high humidity and is full of the most confusing atmosphere of clouds and rain. I stayed at Xitou twice at night, where the fragrance of the trees filled my nose, and the cold night hit my elbows. I pillowed on the moist green mountain shadows and the silence of thousands of people resting, and fell asleep like an immortal. It rained all night in the mountains, and when I woke up the next morning, in the primitive silence before the rising sun, against the cold air of the previous night, I walked through the broken branches on the ground and the thin streams of rainwater still flowing, and explored the secrets of the forest. Winding and winding, we walked up the mountain. In the mountains at Xitou, there are dense trees and thick fog. The rich water vapor slowly rises from the bottom of the valley, sometimes thick and sometimes thin. It is almost impossible to get a full view of the peaks and half ravines. I went up the mountain at least twice and could only play a hide-and-seek game with the peaks of Xitou in the vast white sky. When I returned to Taipei, when people asked me about it, apart from smiling and not answering the questions, pretending to be mysterious, the actual impression was that I was in the middle of nothingness. The Chinese landscape, with its lingering clouds and mist, and the mountains hidden by the water, gives people the charm of Song Dynasty paintings. That world may belong to the Zhao family, but the mountains and rivers belong to the Mi family.
And in the end, no one can tell whether the paintings by Mi and his son resembled the Chinese landscapes, or whether the Chinese landscapes on paper resembled the paintings of the Song Dynasty.
Rain can not only be smelled and kissed, but also heard. Listen to the cold rain. Listening to the rain, as long as it is not an earth-shattering typhoon storm, is always a beautiful feeling in terms of hearing. Autumn on the mainland, whether it is sparse raindrops on the sycamore trees, or showers hitting the lotus leaves, always sounds a bit desolate, desolate, and desolate. Now when I think about it on the island, on top of the desolation, there is a layer of desolation. , No matter how heroic and chivalrous you are, I'm afraid you won't be able to withstand the wind and rain over and over again. A dozen young men listened to the rain and were drowsy with red candles. Listening to the rain again in middle age, the river is broad and the clouds are low in the passenger boat. Three dozen old monks listening to the rain, this is the pain of the death of the Song Dynasty, the life of a sensitive heart: upstairs, on the river, in the temple, they are strung with cold rain beads. Ten years ago, he lost himself in a heartbreaking ghost rain. Rain should be a drop of wet soul, calling someone outside the window.
The rain hits the trees and tiles, and the rhythm is clear and audible. Especially the clang clanging on the roof tiles, that ancient music belongs to China. Wang Yucheng was in Huanggang, and his house was made of bamboos as broken as rafters. It is said that living in a bamboo house, the sound of heavy rain is like a waterfall, and the sound of dense snow is like broken jade. The sound of drums and harps, chanting poems, playing chess, throwing pots, and the sound of the drum are particularly good. Isn't it like living in a bamboo tube? Any tinny sound will be exaggerated and make people's ears allergic.
On a rainy day, the roof tiles are floating with wet light, gray and gentle, slightly bright when facing the light, and dim when the backlight is on. It is a kind of low comfort to the vision. As for the rain hitting the tiles with thousands of petals, from far to near, gently, heavily, gently, there are streams of water flowing down along the tile grooves and eaves, and various percussion sounds and glide sounds are densely woven together. Net, whose fingers are massaging the helix. "It's raining," the gentle gray beauty came. Her delicate hands were playing with countless black and gray keys on the roof, turning noon into dusk.
In the ancient continent, thousands of houses were like this. When I first came to this island more than 20 years ago, the Japanese-style tile houses were also like this. First, the sky darkened, and the city seemed to be covered in a huge piece of frosted glass, with the shadows extending and deepening indoors. Then the cool water filled the space, the wind swirled from every corner, and I could feel the heavy breathing on every roof covered with gray clouds. The rain is coming, and the lightest percussion beats the city. The vast roofs, far and near, are played one by one. The ancient piano, with its fine and dense rhythm, has a kind of softness and kindness in the monotony. Every drop, drop by drop, seems to be illusion and reality, just like a child in the cradle. There, a familiar nursery rhyme rocked me to sleep, and my mother chanted in nasal and guttural sounds. Or in the water town of Zeguo in the south of the Yangtze River, a large basket of green mulberry leaves was eaten by thousands of silkworms, chewing the tiny bits and pieces with their mouthparts. The rain is coming. When the rain comes, the tiles say so. One tile says a thousand billion tiles. Play it softly, then play it quietly, knock it slowly, knock it slowly, knock it intermittently for a rainy season, and improvise from From the awakening of insects to the Qingming Festival, elegy is played coldly on the scattered graves, and hundreds of billions of tiles sing.
Listen to the rain in the old-style house, listen to April, the continuous yellow plum rain, day and night, the ten-month stretch, the wet and sticky moss from the stone steps to the bottom of the tongue and the bottom of the heart. In July, I listened to the typhoon playing blindly on the ancient roof all night. The heat wave on the thousand-layer seabed was hijacked by the strong wind, overturned the entire Pacific Ocean, only to press heavily on its low eaves, and the entire sea roared on its scorpion shell. Overflowing. Otherwise, it is a thunderstorm night, and the drums are heard playing loudly in the white smoke-like gauze tent, the torrential rain is pouring down, the powerful electric pipa is frightening, and the panic of shaking the roof tiles is rising. Otherwise, the slanting northwest rain brushes on the window glass, whips hit the wall and hit the large banana leaves. A cold wave passes over, and the autumn feeling fills the old-style courtyard.
Listen to the rain in the old house, the continuous spring rain, the autumn rain, the middle age from youth, and the cold rain. Rain is a kind of monotonous and durable music. It is indoor music or outdoor music. Listen to it indoors and outdoors. It is cold, that music. Rain is a kind of music of memories. Listen to the cold rain and recall the rain in the south of the Yangtze River. It fell all over the rivers and lakes. It fell on bridges and boats. It also fell in Sichuan in the rice fields and frog ponds. It fertilized the wet cloth valleys under the Jialing River. The cry, the rain is the moist music falling on the longing lips, lick the cold rain.
Because rain is the most primitive percussion music that starts from the other side of memory. The tile is the most subdued musical instrument. Its gray gentleness covers those who listen to the rain. The tile is the umbrella of music. But soon the era of apartments came. Why did you suddenly grow taller in Taipei? The music of Wa became silent. Thousands of tiles are fluttering, and beautiful gray butterflies fly away one after another, flying into the memory of history. Now the rain is falling on the cement roof and walls, a rainy season without music. The trees have also been chopped down, including the laurel trees, the maple trees, the willow trees and the giant coconut trees that lift up the sky. When the rain comes, there are no more noisy leaves, and the wet green light flashes to greet them. Birds chirped less, frogs chirped less, and insects chirped less in autumn. Taipei in the 1970s didn't need this. One band after another was disbanded. To hear the rooster crow, you can only find it in the rhymes of the Book of Songs. Now there is only one black and white film left, a black and white silent film.
Just as the era of horse-drawn carriages has passed, so has the era of tricycles. Once, on a rainy night, the tarpaulin awning of the tricycle was hung up to take her home. The world inside the awning was so cute and small, and it was hidden outside the jurisdiction of the police. The bigger the pocket of the raincoat, the better. It could fit in one of his hands. Hold a delicate hand.
The rainy season in Taiwan is so long, someone should invent a wide double raincoat, one sleeve can be worn by each person, and the other parts do not need to be divided too harshly. And no matter how developed the industry is, it seems that umbrellas cannot be abolished for a while. As long as the rain is not pouring and the wind is not blowing, holding an umbrella in the rain still retains its classic charm. Let the raindrops hit the black cloth umbrella or the transparent plastic umbrella, twist the bone handle, the raindrops will spray in all directions, and the umbrella edge will twist into a circle of cornices. Buying an umbrella with your girlfriend should be a beautiful cooperation. It's best to be in love for the first time, a little excited, a little embarrassed, in a moment of separation, the rain might as well fall a little harder. Real first love is probably when you are so excited that you don’t need an umbrella. You run hand in hand in the rain, letting your young hair and skin drip with the sky, and then you taste the sweet rain on the other person’s lips and cheeks. But that has to be very young and passionate, and at the same time, it can only happen in French trendy films.
Most umbrellas are not meant to be opened for a date. On the way to and from get off work, to and from school, and from the vegetable market. Realistic umbrella, gray wednesday. Holding an umbrella. He heard the cold rain hitting the umbrella. It would be better if it were colder, he thought. Simply freezing the wet gray rain into dry white rain, the hexagonal crystals swirled down in the windless sky. When his eyebrows and shoulders are all white, he reaches out and brushes them off. In the past twenty-five years, I have not been blessed by the white rain in my hometown. Perhaps a little white frost is a disguised form of self-compensation. How many rainy seasons can a hero withstand? Is his forehead cut from sedimentary rock or igneous rock? How thick is the moss in his heart? Twenty years of walking in the rain alley of Xiamen Street are as long as his memory. A tileless apartment is waiting for him at the bottom of the alley. A lamp is in the rainy window upstairs, waiting for him to go back and meditate after dinner to sort out the moss. deep memory.
The past is separated by the sea. The old house is gone. Listen to the cold rain.
1. Sickbed Rumblings Bing Xin
When I suddenly woke up, it was still dark outside the window, with only a high-hanging street lamp emitting countless dazzling lights in the distance!
My flying soul fell into a painful body again.
I suddenly remembered a few words of Lao Tzu:
If I have a big trouble, it is because I have a body; if I have no body, what trouble do I have?
At this time, I felt the pain that the body inflicted on humans. And humans suffer mentally too! The big ones are like worrying about the country and the family, the parting of life and death... The small ones are like being sad for spring and autumn...
Everything in the universe is ruthless: the sun and moon pass through the sky, the rivers move over the earth, spring goes to autumn, Flowers bloom and fall, all following the laws of nature. Only when there are people in the world - the souls of all things, will they bestow their feelings on the heartless things! There are thousands of sentences like "I feel the flowers splashing with tears when I feel the time, and I hate the birds that are frightened by other birds." There are thousands of them at all times and in all over the world. In short, just because there are people with thoughts and emotions, there are joys and sorrows, "war and peace", and "love and death are eternal themes."
I envy those planets without humans!
I am awake.
I woke up from a high fever, opened my eyes and saw the relieved and happy smiling faces of my relatives guarding me beside the bed. I turned my head and saw many vases of flowers on the table beside the bed: roses, chrysanthemums, cyclamen, calla lilies... There were also many letters of condolence piled next to them... I fell into the world of love and flowers again - this It’s better that there are humans in the world!
2. Sunrise on the sea, Bajin
In order to watch the sunrise, I often get up early. It was not yet bright at that time, and the surroundings were very quiet. There was only the sound of machinery on the ship.
The sky is still light blue and very light in color. In the blink of an eye, a red glow appeared on the horizon, slowly expanding its scope and strengthening its brightness. I knew the sun was about to rise from the horizon, so I looked there without blinking an eye.
Sure enough, after a while, a small half of the sun's face appeared in that place. It was red.
It was really red, but there was no light. The sun seemed to be carrying a heavy load, step by step,
slowly working hard to rise, and in the end, it finally broke through the clouds and completely jumped out of the sea
The color was very cute . In an instant, this dark red round thing suddenly
emits a dazzling light, which makes people's eyes hurt. The clouds next to it also suddenly
glow.
Sometimes the sun walks into the clouds, but its light shines down from the clouds and directly
to the water. At this time, it was not easy to tell which was the water and which was the sky,
Because I only saw a bright light.
Sometimes there are dark clouds in the sky, and the clouds are very thick. When the sun comes out, it is still invisible to the human eye
However, the sun's rays of light in the black clouds passed through the black clouds and set a luminous golden edge on the black clouds. Later, the sun slowly broke out of the encirclement and appeared in the sky, even dyeing the black clouds purple or red. At this time, it was not only the sun, clouds and sea water that shone brightly, but also myself.
Isn’t this a great spectacle?
3. Spring Zhu Ziqing
Looking forward, looking forward, the east wind is coming, and the footsteps of spring are approaching.
Everything looked like he had just woken up, and he opened his eyes happily. The mountains are moist, the water is growing, and the sun is blushing.
The grass secretly emerged from the soil, tender and green. In the garden and in the fields, you can see that there are large areas full of them. Sit down, lie down, roll a few times, kick a few balls, race a few times, play hide-and-seek a few times. The wind is gentle and the grass is soft.
Peach trees, apricot trees, and pear trees, if you don’t let me, I won’t let you, they are all full of flowers. The red ones are like fire, the pink ones are like clouds, and the white ones are like snow. There is a sweetness in the flowers. When you close your eyes, the trees seem to be full of peaches, apricots and pears! Thousands of bees were buzzing under the flowers, and butterflies of all sizes were flying around. Wild flowers are everywhere: various kinds, with names and without names, scattered in the grass, like eyes, like stars, and they are blinking.
"The willow wind does not blow cold on your face", not bad, like a mother's hand caressing you. The wind brought the smell of newly turned soil, mixed with the smell of grass, and the fragrance of various flowers, all brewing in the slightly moist air. The birds settled their nests among the flowers and leaves, became happy, and showed off their clear throats to their friends, singing melodious songs that matched the gentle breeze and flowing water. The piccolo played by the shepherd boy on the cow's back was also ringing loudly all day long.
Rain is the most common, lasting for three or two days at a time. But don't be upset, look, it's like cow hair, like flower needles, like fine threads, densely woven diagonally, and there's a thin layer of smoke covering the roof of the house. The leaves of the trees are so green that it shines brightly, and the grass is so green that it irritates your eyes. In the evening, the lights were turned on, and a little yellow light created a quiet and peaceful night. Going to the countryside, on the small roads and by the stone bridges, there are people holding umbrellas and walking slowly; there are also farmers working in the fields, wearing straw hats and hats. Their thatched cottages were sparse and silent in the rain.
There are gradually more kites in the sky and more children on the ground. In the city and in the countryside, every household, old and young, came out one by one, as if they were rushing to go. Rejuvenate your muscles and bones, rouse yourself, and do your respective things. "A year's plan begins with spring." At the beginning, there is plenty of time and plenty of hope.
Spring is like a baby that just landed, it is new from head to toe and it is growing.
Spring is like a little girl, full of flowers, smiling and walking.
Spring is like a strong young man, with iron-like arms, waist and feet. He leads us forward.
4. Snow Yu Qiuyu
Beautiful snowflakes are flying. I haven't seen it for three years.
Last year in Fujian, it seemed that I had seen snow a little later than now. But that's the snow on the top of the mountain in the distance, not flying snowflakes. On the plains, it only occasionally sprinkled with raindrops, and never fell to the ground. Its color is gray, not white; its weight is like raindrops, which do not fly. As soon as it hit the ground, it immediately melted into water, leaving no trace, jumping, or making a hissing sound, just like what it looks like when it snows in Jiangsu and Zhejiang. It is true that the elderly Fujian people who saw this kind of snow for the first time in forty years felt a special meaning and talked about it with gusto, but for me, it always felt dull. "It snowed in Fujian", I never thought about it that way.
I like the snowflakes flying in Shanghai in front of me. It is "snow-white" white and as beautiful as a flower. It seemed to be lighter than the air. It did not fall from the air, but was lifted up from the ground by the air. However, it is also like a living creature, like swarms of gnats at dusk in summer, like bees during the honey-making period in spring. Its busy flight is up or down, fast or slow, or clinging to the body. , or crowd into the window gap, as if it has its own will and purpose. It is silent. But when it was flying, we seemed to hear the cries and footsteps of millions of people, the roar of the sea, the roar of the forest, and sometimes we seemed to hear the whispers of children and the calm evening prayers of the chapel. , the joyful song of birds in the garden... what it brings is gloom and cold. But in its flying posture, we see charitable mothers, lively children, smiling flowers, warm sun, silent sunset... It has no breath. But when it hits us, we seem to smell the fresh air in the wilderness, the elegant orchids in the valley, the rich roses in the garden, the light jasmine... During the day, It makes thousands of graceful gestures; at night, it emits a silvery brilliance, illuminating our walkers, and paints all kinds of flowers and trees on our glass windows, diagonally, Straight, curved, inverted. And the river, the clouds in the sky...
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Youth
Youth is not about years, but about state of mind; youth is not about rosy faces, red lips, and soft knees, but about deep will and magnificent thoughts
Like, hot love; youth is the deep spring of life flowing.
Youth is full of energy, bravery overwhelms timidity, and progress overwhelms peace. Such vigor is inherent in men born in their twenties, and is more common in men in their sixties. Adding years does not mean getting old, and abandoning ideals means falling into old age.
As time goes by, decline only affects the skin; abandoning enthusiasm will lead to decadence in the soul.
Worry, fear, and loss of self-confidence will definitely distort the mind and make the spirit feel gray.
No matter whether you are sixty or twenty, you all have the joy of life, the temptation of miracles, and the child-like innocence in your heart. There is an antenna in everyone's heart. As long as you receive signals of beauty, hope, joy, courage and strength from heaven and earth, you will remain young and graceful forever.
Once the antenna is lowered, your energy will be covered by ice and snow, and cynicism and self-destruction will arise. Even if you are only twenty, you are already old; but as long as you set up the antenna and catch the optimistic signal, you will have hope. I still felt young when I passed away at the age of eighty.