poplar
There are many green hills in my memory.
The coolness of the mountain stream, the agitation of the waterfall, the green leaves with big palms and pink cheeks like safflower. Walking out of the mountains, the melancholy of gain and loss is only known to songbirds.
One day, I went downstairs and pushed open the screen door in the backyard. I was caught in a cold rain on my head. I'm going to walk to the campus for a concert. The road is wet and cold. After the snow melted, spring came quietly. There are people singing poems in western churches. I don't know what they are praising. Maybe it's praising 1000 lakes, maybe it's praising 10 thousand green hills, maybe it's crying, maybe it's just ordinary melancholy.
Once, I drove east to Chicago and crossed a small river at dusk. Under the stone bridge are lush trees. It was still late autumn, and the red leaves were covered with a thick white fog in the twilight. A wooden sign was erected by the bridge, which read "Wolf River", a lonely and wild mood. When I came back from Chicago and crossed the "Wolf River" again, I felt much less shocked. I almost forgot the fear and loneliness when I first crossed the "Wolf River". Life can be changed, and so can the feeling of the scene. Every second, we are drawing new impressions of heaven and earth and destroying old ones.
After listening to Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony several times, I naturally thought of the cold wind at night, the drizzle and the two big elms waiting to sprout in the yard. I want to describe these now to commemorate this land. After a year of meditation, I realized that it was not just the strange satisfaction that surprised me, but another land, memories and thoughts for another period of time. This reminds me that when I was twenty years old, an English gentleman who had just graduated from Cambridge read a Greek tragedy. It was autumn, and on a cold morning, we read Sophocles' King Oedipus. When the gentleman was blind, he read aloud the call of king Oedipus-ah fate, fate! -I seem to be awakened by creation in an instant. Now I understand that it is not the power of literature or classicism, but the power of memory. All the tragic imagination was indeed stripped off frankly and bloody by poetry in an instant. Seeing the Greek tragedy recently, I feel different.
What's missing here? What did you get? Time and distance will wear away the soul; Thinking and silence cast a layer of white fog on the green hills, and cast a lot of terrible noises on them. One critic said that Fox's novels were desolate and sounded like horns. In fact, the whole life is quite bleak, with the sound of a horn.
And people's thoughts are disordered, changing every minute; Sometimes you think that the formed waves will be reduced to a nightmare rainstorm and roll like a rainstorm. If you have ever walked alone on a familiar mountain road in your hometown, if you have ever thought about washing your body in a deep stream, if you have ever mourned for a fallen leaf falling at the bottom of the valley, you have stopped to mourn, and suddenly a storm, you fled to a cave and waited for the weather to clear up-if you have that experience, you will feel that life is full and empty.
The fullness and emptiness of life is hard to say clearly. In winter, during holidays, Iowa City is very quiet. One noon, I was waiting at the door for a professor to pick me up and take me to his house for Christmas dinner. It was half past eleven and it had been snowing for three hours. It was still snowing when I opened the door. The street is quiet, with thick cotton wool on the road, no cars and no pedestrians. Snowflakes fell silently, covering everything, and the primary school stadium and the Woods on the river bank were dead silent. At that time, I couldn't tell whether that silence should be the enrichment of all things in nature or the emptiness of all things in nature. I don't even know whether that silence should be a kind of silence or another kind of noise-just like watching the sea when I was a child.
Can you say that the sea is noisy? Even if you stand on the beach, do you hear the sound of the sea? Maybe you didn't hear anything, maybe that rumbling illusion is just an inner shock, maybe it's a call of love, maybe it's a churning of desire. ...
I only know that there are many green hills in my memory, which have crossed the fog of time and space, and I don't know what I lost or what I gained. I can't help whispering; I began to pity you under the window of Zhushan, and I won't change if I don't go back.