Twilight is magnificent
It was the splendor that the sun had collected all day
Reluctantly say goodbye
The next morning dawns
It will again with a poetic smile
Rising...
Dusk
(Excerpt) Author: Ji Xianlin
Dusk is mysterious, and as long as people can live one more day, at the end of that day, they will have a twilight. However, the year rolls year, the moon rolls the moon, and they live for countless days, and there are countless dusks. I would like to ask: How many people are aware of the existence of this twilight? In the morning, when the dream flew away from the pillow, they woke up and began to walk the day. They walked, walked, and walked to noon, and the road turned sharply. It was as if they had slipped to the end of the day, and when they saw the distant white smoke, the treetops lightly painted with a golden yellow, and the flocks of twilight crows flew back with the sun, as if something was gently pressing on their hearts. They know: The night is coming. They long for rest; they long for the coming of dreams. Soon, the thin night pasted their eyes and their hearts. They were busy in the low hut, shutting out the dusk, if someone asked: Have you seen the dusk? The dusk was so beautiful, but they were dazed.
How could they not be at a loss? When they poked their heads out of the house again to look for dusk, it had already disappeared with the disappearance of the white smoke, the disappearance of gold in the treetops, and the disappearance of the sun on the crow's back. Only a hazy night remained, and this dusk, like a light dream of spring supper, did not know when it came, swept over their hearts, and did not know when it went. Dusk is gone. Where did it go? - No, let me ask first: Where does dusk come from? I can't tell. Who knows? I can't grab a handful of twilight and ask it to the end. From the East? The east is where the sun comes out. From the West? Isn't the West shining with red light? From the South? The south is filled with only light and heat, and it seems that only the most suitable thing to say is to come from the north. If we think about it, thinking that the extreme of the north is the Arctic Ocean, we can depict in our imagination: the white world, the white snow field, and the white iceberg. Further north, on the edge of the white sky, it is indistinguishable that it is heaven, earth, ice, and snow, but a hazy gray. Shouldn't the hazy gray twilight be degenerate from here?
However, the metamorphosis came out and spread out again. It swept across the great plains, the steppes, leaving a layer of shadows; over the great forest, leaving a gloomy darkness, spreading over the stream, dissolving the dark gray twilight into the sound of the muddy water, and the water surface was faintly bright in the silence; over the top of the mountain, leaving them with the light of the stars and the moon; over the small village, leaving the twilight smoke in the sky... A piece was torn off each corner, and a handful was held for each cobweb. Later, he wandered through the lonely desert and came to our land. I can imagine: if I were to stand in the desert at dusk, I would be able to watch the twilight come running from the far edge of the sky, like -- like what? Shouldn't it be like a gray white fog? Or like a diffuse cloud shadow? Running, still leaving only a shadow, ran again, came to our land, with the white smoke that permeated the distance, with the faint golden yellow on the treetops, and with the sun on the back of the crow, gently falling on people's hearts, and being shut out again.
In winter, the patio is covered with snow. I curled up in the house. When I see the white window paper gradually graying out, and the flames in the furnace that cannot be seen in the daytime gradually become red and bright, I will also know: It is dusk. I looked out through the cracks in the wind doors: the gray sky, the gray roof covered with snow. The half-bent bleak cool moon is imprinted in the sky, although it is a little desolate, but it still can't hide the beauty of dusk. At this time, even the people who often sat on the patio and waited for it to come had to huddle in the house. Only the gray snow color accompanied by its coldness outside the door, who is this illusory hazy world created for? Don't you feel lonely at dusk? But loneliness doesn't last long. Dusk still has to go. Li Shangyin's poem says: "The sunset is infinitely good, but it is near dusk." "Doesn't the poet lament that the twilight cannot stay long?" It really can't stay long, for a moment, this dusk, like a light dream, only sweeps on people's hearts, leaving a dark night, carrying its loneliness away. Gone, really gone.
Where to go again? No one really knows. Did you climb into the dark sky with the light of the faint white cold moon? Did the little star that blinked climb up the Heavenly River? Did it press on the wings of a bat and burrow into the eaves? With the redness of the Western Heavens dissolved behind the distant mountains? And who knows? All we know is this: it's gone, it's gone, it's gone with its loneliness and beauty, like a faint hint of flutter, like a light dream of spring.
Gone,—— now, now what do I have to ask? Waiting for tomorrow? Tomorrow is coming, tomorrow and tomorrow. When people saw the distant white smoke, the treetops were faintly painted a golden yellow, and the flocks of twilight crows flew back with the sun, it was as if something was pressing on their hearts, and they longed for the dream to come. Closed the door. It was still dusk that was closed outside the door, and when they reached out again to look for it, dusk was long gone. From the Arctic Ocean, I crossed the road and went to the African forest. And then, and then to where, who knows? However, the night came: a long dark night, a night of stars and moonlight, a night of floating dark incense... Just night, long night, night never ends, what about dusk? - Dusk never exists in people's hearts. Only a sweep, gone, like a light dream of a spring supper.
The original article was published in the Literary Monthly on March 1, 1934
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