On a lonely night, my thoughts often start from the village.
Thatched grass, sickle, crow and moon, a tile, half a brick, wisps of thin cold smoke, and several towering trees, where my soul is full of poetry. Many years later, when I was leaning against the railing and looking at my hometown in the northwest in the winter dusk of a city, my eyelashes were wet with snowflakes coming from my hometown. I saw a lonely bird flying in the snowflakes in the sky between tall buildings. It couldn't find its way home and nest. Will it die in such a cold night? Can it dream of mother's white and warm chest at the moment when life is coming to an end?
That is a group of birds who are happy in winter. The birds living in the village are all happy birds, even a group of crows. They fly, dance, sing and feast together in the dazzling sunshine in winter; At night, when the night sank, they went home crying together. They are not lost and lonely. In the Woods near the village, the night has fallen, the birds have returned to their nests, and the surrounding is full of peace like water. There are stars and the moon above the forest.
The air began to cool gradually, and the insects stopped chirping, leaving only the smell of soil and trees gradually clear, leaving only tender privacy and secrets. The houses scattered by the Woods are faintly visible under the silver-gray Yue Hui. One or two owls with discerning eyes are squatting on the high roof, while the mossy pebbles on the stone platform under the eaves are full of wet rain from the previous fields. During the day, chickens and birds drink with their mouths pursed, and at night, their eyes are full of swaying crystal moons.
My mind can't stand the moon over such a village.
It is the pure blue moon in the poet's heart. It can only appear in poetry, on the village night many years ago, in my dreams and in my little sister's gibberish. It belongs to childhood and dreams, to the heart and soul.
Stevens said, "The moon will fold into the coat." It makes me imagine how bright Yue Hui is on a moonlit night. After dinner, we strolled into the Woods near the village. Our children sleep at home. When they came out, she told us to bring the moon to her. Then, when we got home, the moon was folded in my coat and trembled in her little hand. Such a child is happy. She can see the purest and most perfect moon in the country, and she has a childish heart.
When I betrayed my village, I walked into the city with flashing lights and strolled in the crowded square after dinner. When I tried to hold the child's hand and show her which is the moon and which is the star in the city sky, I failed, and our sight was blocked by dazzling neon lights. There is no silence and moonlight around us, but our ears are full of popular noises and screams. I know that maybe my statement is a little melodramatic, because I can't live without this city now, but my heart is being betrayed and I have endless yearning for the blue moon that appears in the Woods near the village.
I know that when I can always see white marble sculptures and colorful fountains in the square, the blue moon belonging to the village has gradually drifted away.
Poor kid! If you can't know the moon, what can you know?
I am tired. I'm exhausted. That low hut became my spiritual paradise.
I ran away from home that spring, and my mother drove me to the village with her Aries. Then, I left the narrow path and walked to the city. My mother turned and drove her sheep into the grassland. Does she know that her son will come back to her one day? Village, what kind of concept is this? Why do you dream about it as you get older? In fact, I dare not touch such a hot word for many nights. It is my soul and root. My roots are rooted in the village, in the barking of dogs in the country, in the sky full of birds and the moon, and in the land full of trees.