Chapter 375: 470 chapters, the moonlit night of being twenty

470 chapters, the moonlit night of being twenty

47o chapters, the moonlit night of being twenty

—— a branch of apricot blossom growing over the wall

Again, a night without stars, without moon. A quiet night, the night is quiet.

Who said: "Stars —

Can only whiten the youth's,

Cannot gray the youth's heart.

Yes, our hair has turned white, but our heart cannot turn gray. What is the heart? The heart is the pivot of life.

It is the starting point of life. If the heart turns gray, life also turns gray; if the heart turns gray, life withers.

The night is quiet, my dream continues, doing, doing a dream similar to that of Taiwanese poet Ximurong——

"Always hope

the moonlit night of being twenty

(But tonight there is no moon,

Not only is there no moon, even there are no stars.

No stars, no moon, does not mean no dream.

If this life has no dream, then life will wither.

Even a withered life will still dream of spring's arrival.

So, this dream must still be pursued. In the quiet night, in the warm night air——

I dreamed of spring's arrival, although spring had just left and summer came soon after; then I also dreamed of autumn's arrival.

How I dread autumn's arrival. Autumn's arrival is a good thing; with autumn's arrival one can see flowers turn to fruit, and in the fragrance of rice blossoms one can also speak of a bountiful year.

Why fear autumn's arrival?

Why? With autumn's arrival, those green branches, those green leaves, those flowers, those blossoms, will have to part from us.

Too unambitious. Those who see the moon set and flowers fade and secretly shed tears are unambitious people.

Right, friend, you count, you say it's right, I am one of the most unambitious people.

One of? What does that mean? Could there be a second?

In this world, seeing the moon wane and flowers fade and secretly shedding tears, the unambitious are not just me.

Let me continue dreaming, anyway the night is quiet, in the quiet night there's nothing to do; if not dreaming, what to do? It's terribly lonely.

I dreamed of a thin poet, writing for three days and three nights, twisting off a few short beard hairs, writing a poem; this poem sold for a hundred dollars. Thus the poet was so happy he didn't eat for three days, resulting in a ruined stomach, went to the hospital for an IV, the hundred‑dollar medicine fee wasn't even enough.

How sorrowful, how bitter fate. The sorrowful, fate‑bitter poet wipes his tears on the last petals of autumn.

The poet, while wiping tears on autumn's last petals, mutters to himself, self‑consoling, obsessively unaware, says to the petals about to fall: "Don't fear, although autumn comes, although winter has come, thereafter still comes spring."

By then, everywhere orioles sing and swallows dance, with moreover murmuring streams.

You will wake in the quiet night, see the red sun shining on the window screen, hear the streets and alleys selling apricot blossoms.

What a bunch of nonsense dreams, confused, babbling, incoherent, rambling, wild imaginings: on spring streets there are only sellers of steamed buns, congee, and fried dough sticks; where would anyone sell apricot blossoms?

This is what a poet does: indulges in daydreams, especially since this is at night, and a quiet night.

In a quiet night, a poet dreams most easily. Who said: "In history a poet seems sacred, but a poet next door is just a joke."

But my neighbor isn't a poet, so the joke is just me laughing at myself. It's not me mocking others; it's others mocking me. Because I'm half a poet, an ant‑like poet. I am the sort of person who 'can compose a poem upon seeing a mouse.'

Those who can compose a poem upon seeing a mouse — I've long heard there are such people; they are not modern folk, for modern people basically never see mice, especially city dwellers.

That poem was composed by ancient people. Ancient people, many of them on barren mountain slopes, where mice are especially numerous, are poets. Surely they are folk poets, living in the wilderness, living next door; at night they often see mice moving, stealing the grain they painstakingly harvested, gnawing their belongings, disturbing the poet's sleep, making the poet furious. Thus anger brings forth the poet, anger brings forth good poetry. That good poem is written thus: — 'Big rat, big rat, do not eat my millet, three bundles you bind, I will not look after you. You will depart, go to your happy land. Happy land, happy land, I obtain what I seek. Big rat, big rat, do not eat my wheat, three years you penetrate me, I will not gain you. You will depart, go to my happy country. Happy country, happy country, I obtain my dwelling. Big rat, big rat, do not harm my seedlings, three years you bind me, I will not labor for you. You will depart, go to the happy outskirts. Happy outskirts, happy outskirts, whose eternal cry?'

What are the ancients saying? Roughly meaning that mice are not good things, they often steal the master's food and chew his belongings, yet there is nothing one can do about them. Someone says seeing a mouse can make a poem; what kind of poem? A hymn praising it? Seeing a mouse can write a — need to see a punctuation mark? Can one compose a poem?)

Friend, you surely think the words in these parentheses are too long, you dislike my verbosity; to keep your complete thought on a poem for you, you can now set aside my parenthetical words and just think of this little poem by Taiwanese poet Ximurong——

"Always hope

the moonlit night of being twenty

Can return again (the moonlit night can return, being twenty cannot return again).

However

Shang-era wind

Tang-era rain

(What kind of wind is the Shang-era wind? The wind of elegance and praise? What kind of rain is the Tang-era rain? 'The street's fine rain moistens like butter, the grass color seen from afar appears close yet none.' Is that the street's fine rain? Or is it the 'Good rain knows the season, when spring arises. It follows the wind secretly at night, moistens silently. Wild paths' clouds all dark, river boats' fire alone bright. Looking at the damp red, flowers weigh heavy on brocade Chengdu''s 'good rain'? The poet's words are vague. Is vagueness also a beauty?)

How many branches of flowers

How many leisurely‑minded maidens

Thinking of them after they turn back on the jade steps

Can only vainly cut down roses

**inside the bottle

This talk seems the more said, the more absurd. Let's continue later. Talking too much wastes the friend's rest time……………………..

(Heart tied to the disaster area, emotion tied to the disaster area: may peace, courage, confidence, strength accompany the disaster‑area people! Keep company)