Chapter 159: 251 Chapters, Forgetting Is a Kind of Beauty

251 Chapters, Forgetting Is a Kind of Beauty

251 Chapters, Forgetting Is a Kind of Beauty

――――Liu Guozong

I dreamed of lily flowers blooming before my eyes, that overwhelming sweet fragrance I could not describe in words. Just as I could not describe the scent of the beautiful green plum I once smelled in childhood.

The childhood green plum also no longer has fragrance, no longer has any sign. Those withered branches have long been unable to bloom with their former beauty.

But the lily flower can, the lily flower can in my barren heart's field, sow anew the hope of beauty. That lily flower does not bloom casually; she always blooms for those who sincerely long for her.

Although this is a dream, can a dream not also change a person's feelings?

Someone says, forgetting is a kind of beauty, leaving those tangled worries and those blurred plotlines in time that will never return.

Outside the window I gaze upon, the spring wind sways the slender willow threads under the moonlight, those slender willow threads tug at the peach branches about to bloom. When the peach blossoms turn red, will those willow threads that tug them grow old?

The poet further said, 'Flowers bright, willow dark.' My soul explained to me: 'Everything is emptiness.'

I angrily said, 'Are not the pure white moonlight before my eyes, the slender willow branches, the peach blossoms about to open, the coins in my pocket, the solitude I keep alone under the moonlight, all truly real?'

The poet told me, 'All good things are substantial, and good things never disappear; the world forever preserves good things, just like stringing pearls on a necklace.'

Don't keep nagging, poet. Does this world preserve good things and not preserve bad ones? How else should we explain 'the sun shines on the good and also on the bad; rain falls on the righteous and also on the unrighteous'?

The poet fell silent, the poet thought.

Silence is gold, thought is silver. The poet who has both gold and silver became wealthy. The wealthy poet, awakened from the dream, empty-handed, clutched only silence and thought, and of course loneliness.

'Is this also emptiness?' I asked God.

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