Xu Zhimo: Letter to people who complain about life

Follow the grass and read more classic poems

Getting your letter is like a treasure dug into the ground, the same rarity, the same preciousness.

Looking at your letter is like looking at the remnants of ancient times, the surface is vague, but the meaning is subtle.

It's like night next to the Nile, when the moon was shining on the pyramids, dreaming of an emperor in a golden robe, riddling at me, I knew what he meant, he said, "I am nothing more than a decent mummy." ”

It is also like when I woke up in the middle of the night at the foot of this heavy mountain, I heard the poor disgusted bird call of the nightingale in the pine forest, although he did not have the talent of the sub-rule, but I understood his resentment, his ideals, his urgency was his mockery and curse, and I knew how he despised everything, despised the light, despised the noisy birds, and despised the proud thrush.

It is also like a miracle I found in Putuo Mountain: on the outside it looks like a large rock, but the inside has long been eroded by the sea, leaving only a brain shell like the head of the Arhat, and every time the waves hug the island, they emit a very mysterious sound, like love words, like curses, like prayers, whimpering between carved stalagmites and stalactites, like the harmonic sound of the Yamato harp reverberating among the rafters and stone trees of the ancient temple of Gao Shege - but unless you have the patience and courage to climb down several stone rocks, lean down to look and listen intently, you may never imagine, It goes without saying to discover such secrets.

It's like... But I know, friend, that you have heard enough of my metaphors, and perhaps you are willing to listen to my natural voice and unpretentious tone, and you are unwilling to accept words wrapped in fanciful bright foil, though I cannot fail to add that you yourself are the most fond of blowing your strange tone from a curved silver trumpet.

You say, "The wind is great, and life is dry." These words seemed to be a strange cool breeze that made me feel a terrible shudder; like a drifting autumn leaf, a tear of compassion fell from my soul.

In my memory, I seem to be confident, not without the color and aroma of wine, not without the traces of a feminine smile, I think I can always resist the influence of your gray tone - yes, yesterday afternoon when I was walking in the field, I did not clearly see two fierce black clouds destroyed in the fierce flames of the sun, five small goats, rabbit-like white, listening to their mother's instructions to look for grass on the side of the road, three grass-cutting children throwing sickles in front of a rice hoard, natural liveliness gave me a lot of encouragement, I shouted at the pagoda in the white clouds that I knew that life was interesting.

The sun did not come out today. Bundles of clouds clinging to each other in the air, and your words happen to add a few more clouds, and I wonder again about my declaration yesterday.

I wondered again, friend, why did your words in my heart be like chalk painted on glass, this translucent dullness is a very clever punishment, I almost cried out in pain.

I looked out of my window, a dark patch, no moon, no starlight, not to mention daylight, he had long since left, there was a dark forest, the trees, I knew, it was the residence of the night osprey, under the trees were arranged in the faint of the first night, I also knew that it was a grave, the stiff white bones buried in the hard mud, the phosphorus fire did not see a star, such a quiet, such a miserable, the victory of the night was complete.

I closed my eyes and inquired into my spiritual house, and I could not find an image of a life detached from dryness, dry as a shadow, forever following the feet of life, and like the onion pipe of the onion, forever attached to the top of life's head, it was a miracle.

I'm sorry, friend, but I can't reply to you, though I'd love to think that I'm not a cheerful westerly wind that can't blow away the clouds in the sky, I have only a rough shovel in my hand, and as beautiful as it has ideals or hopes to be buried, my work is ready—I've had my experience.

Friend, I am afraid that in the end, I will have to accept your influence, because your words have been fiercely bitten into my heart, like a poisonous scorpion, which has been pressed heavily on my heart, like a panto stone, I can only endure, I can only endure...