<b>The side street is broken</b>
Text/Xiangjun
A corner of the ancient city is a sleeping street.
The wheel of history has rolled heavily on its back, and it has also made it spasm in pain. For many years, it has been sleeping.
Turn over the broken bridge of history: in a trance, a gong sounded "dang", the servant wearing a black cloth coat and pedaling long-barrel soap boots carried the Eight-Wheeled Bridge slowly, the unkempt beggar in rags threw the dog stick and hurriedly fled; the face came to the showman with a folding fan in his hand, shaking his head and chanting poetry, completely ignoring the Weng concubine who squatted on the side of the road; the people in the night were hungry, and the thick smell of flesh wafted from the black lacquered gate behind the stone lion.
The ruins of history have been washed away by the torrent of time, and several degrees of wind and rain have eroded the moss-covered bricks of the small streets. So, condensing the pain of the times into distant dreams, it fell into a deep sleep.
History climbs its back "creaks, squeaks" farther away, and primitive civilization exudes a quaint atmosphere.
At some point, exquisite pavilions arched on both sides of the small street, colorful New Year paintings were hung on the street, and seven-colored balloons swayed with a new civilization. As a result, the "clattering" of the car, together with the rhythmic "bang" of the tape recorder, drove away the yellowing days.
The rushing bell of the bicycle rushed into the flow of people, and the rhythm of life jumped strongly.
There are barbershops on the street, repair shops, and grocery stalls. The big truck with the bright and dangling lights running by, the old man pushing the canoe put the small felt hat on the back of his head and squinted at the dappled sign advertisement on the telephone pole, the girl in the oil shoe proudly threw her hair and threw her hair and stepped on the cement steps of the department store, and the city boy wearing sunglasses spat out a round spit head that was not low...
Pedestrians come and go like this.
The mediocre people live in such a muddled way.
History is like this small street, all kinds of people are silently born and die without doing anything...
The rise and fall of the ups and downs is the law of nature, and the slow flow of water under the arch bridge reflects the wind and clouds of the small street era.
Here, it has endured the drench of fierce winds and rain; here, it has been ravaged by the iron hooves of the empire. How many times the green platform has grown moss, how many times the gray tile ridge has grown into decaying grass, and how many times the upturned cornice has slipped through the moon...
Incomplete milestones do not even have heavy years, and time still passes.
The roar of machines sounded in the rows of factory buildings, and chimneys that shot straight up from the roofs. At the same time, an overwhelming amount of ash and wastewater spilled onto the streets. As a result, the water under the arch bridge was muddy, the flowers and grasses on the side of the street withered, and the fresh air was moldy.
Science makes mankind progress and also causes mankind to suffer.
When the workers leave work, the bicycle bells are noisy, and the street makes a small snoring.
The northwest wind blew lazily, accompanied by the ancient sound of the whips. The side street fell asleep stubbornly.
I don't know when, the wind of reform blew into the leisurely dream of the small street, and the small house full of legends arched out the stories of "entrepreneurs", "ten thousand yuan households", "mushrooms" and "grape kings". The streets are filled with the gentle dance steps of young people, filled with the comforting laughter of the elderly, and flashing the charming brilliance of neon lights.
In this inconspicuous corner, the small street was like a giant python that had been sleeping for a hundred years, and in the call of reform, it shook its arms, yawned, and opened its hazy sleeping eyes. The spring breeze gently washed away the accumulation of history on its body, and it felt very comfortable, and it struggled to turn over the huge body...
The moldy days were already drifting away, the electric clock was "rattling" and the side street was finally awake.
【About the author】Xiang Jun (male), born in Yimeng Mountain, joined the army at the foot of Taihang Mountain, transferred to the reporter station of The Jinan Military Region of CCTV in 2001, a member of the Henan Writers Association, and founded the first online television program of the Northern Theater Army, "Hokuriku News".
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