always feels that the old walls in western Liaoning are like mirrors of history, reflecting the customs of the ancient cities and small mountain villages, and reflecting the customs of the old roads that have not yet been extinguished.
Your eyes may wander or stay, wandering from one end to the other, that sense of vicissitudes and weight will hit your face. Every time you jump and touch your fingertips, it will bring you a feeling of cleansing your mind. Shocking.
The kind of simplicity is the loss of prosperity after thousands of years of wind and rain, the mottled texture is the result of countless hardships after the wind, frost, rain and snow, the kind of potholes, you can feel deeply when you gaze sideways among the potholes. The plundering of the beacon fire, the smearing of those fireworks, and the infiltration of incense have actually given it an immortal soul between the rising and setting of the sun.
Each arc cuts the earthly world and the sky to its advantage. When you look up, you will see a clear blue sky, but also fireworks rising. Time is silent, the years are speechless, and what is written in the wind are ancient people, ancient capitals, ancient counties, ancient walls, yellowed letters that have been preserved for thousands of years, wordless books, containing thousands of words, passed down to future generations.
The door was covered with basil, and the few wisps of light thatch on the wall sprouted new sprouts in the continuous rain. A touch of goose yellow timidly looks at this summer where the wind and sand are seamlessly connected with the plum rain. Fortunately, it is backed by a big tree that blocks the sun. The clouds are rolling in the clouds, which are the joints of lights like beans, and the growth in the bright stars. It is also the accumulation of thin hair in the flickering of fireworks.
There are broken walls and ruins, sometimes among weeds and basil. Bricks and tiles are scattered on the ground, dotted with the wild growth of thorns in the summer. Every section is a memory, and every persistence is the continuation of the ancient village’s humanity.
The mountains are beautiful, and from time to time a cloud comes and brings a burst of rain. The drops of rain imply the farmers' desire for a bumper harvest. It's just that in the mountains, things can easily backfire. The grass is abundant and the bean sprouts are sparse, exaggerating the tranquility of that is inaccessible.
The mountain road stretches out wantonly, like an unfolding picture scroll, with thick ink, heavy colors, blue and green calligraphy, and what is painted is a beautiful and refined mountain village scenery.
The wall is that wall, the mountain is that mountain, but the figures are longing, the traffic is like a dragon, the carriages and horses are noisy, and when the four seasons change, what changes is the carrier of interpreting the story of the mountain and countryside, writing oneself and remembering others, because Depending on the people, the village is given different lives and missions.
The big grinding wheel in front of the door and the windlass in the corner seem to have been forgotten in time, but as long as they are seen, noticed, fixed, and retained, then life will continue indefinitely.
The small cart in the vegetable garden, the flowers in front of the door, the wild jujube flowers in the mountains, and the flatbed truck filled with cool water to spray the corns, all rotate in your eyes like a revolving lantern. A moment of stillness is the reappearance of yesterday; if it continues to change, it is the sudden change of the present.
In the fenced yard, wild flowers that cannot be named, in the empty ravines, are not less fragrant because there is no one there. At that moment, they seem to be the beauty of the sky, but they bloom silently, flourish and wither silently.
The eggplant seedlings and pumpkin seedlings that have been ruffled by the rain lead the summer style of the Northeast courtyard. Whether they are crawling on the soil at zero distance, or raising their heads high to connect with the sky, what flows in every vein is The greenery is lush and hearty.
A newborn calf always has a little recognition and fear in its eyes. There is no movement of eyes, and there is no sweet smile. It looks at you blankly, not knowing who you are, where you come from, and where you are going. Go, the most important thing is that it may not understand what it means to have your camera pointed at it.At this moment, what kind of emoticon should I dedicate to be worthy of the encounter at this moment?
The sky is high and the clouds are light, so clear that it is refreshing. The ancients often said that there are nine layers of sky, as far as the eye can see, I don’t know how many layers there are. Clouds come and go unintentionally, clinging to chimneys, walls, treetops, iron towers, everywhere. Flowers are falling in front of the court, and the clouds are rolling and relaxing. Spend a free day in the mountains and count the passing years in this world. The gentle brows and eyes reflected in the blue sky, the lingering smile, just said, there is nothing in the mountains, there are many white clouds on the mountains. I can only enjoy it for myself, but I can't bear to give it to you.
