bookrandom Chapter 766 Red
Chapter 766 Red
The reflections in the mirror overlap, one is a classical beauty who is as weak as a willow in the wind, and the other is a modern girl with a bookish air. Yuanchun gave the palace lanterns at the Lantern Festival. Su Tang looked at Daiyu who was trying to attend social events despite her illness, and her heart tightened. After the banquet, she took Daiyu away from the crowd and lit a bonfire in the bamboo forest behind the Longcui Temple. "If one day, you want to leave this cage..." Su Tang stuffed the hand warmer into Daiyu's palm, "I will take you to see the real world." Daiyu leaned against the bamboo branch and smiled softly, and the firelight made her cheeks blush: "Sister Su always says some stupid things. Although the Jia Mansion is a shackle for me, it is also my home." She picked up a dead branch and fiddled with the flames, "But... If there is really an afterlife, I would like to be a storyteller who travels all over the country." On the day of the Waking of Insects, Su Tang found a crack in time and space in the Grand View Garden. She held Daiyu's hand and refused to let go, but saw that the crimson purple figure gradually became transparent. "Sister, don't forget," Daiyu's voice mixed with the sound of spring thunder came, "In the cold moon and flower souls, we will meet again." When she opened her eyes again, Su Tang was lying on the floor of the museum. The "Daiyu Burying Flowers" in the display cabinet was glowing, and she took out the shark silk handkerchief in her arms, the tears on it were not yet dry. A new message popped up on the phone, and a friend sent an invitation to an academic forum: "At the Redology Symposium, someone found a mysterious poem hidden in the ancient painting..."
The poem begins with the orange sunset covering the river, depicting the poet Lu Chuan's confusion and thinking by the river. The poem incorporates the life story of the old boatman, the details of the difficulties in poetry creation, and the delicate description of natural images, showing the emotional precipitation and ideological transformation of the characters at dusk. When the last ray of sunset in the Dusk River poem dyed the river water into honey, Lu Chuan's leather shoes sank into the mud on the river bank. He looked at the burning clouds on the opposite bank, like overturned cinnabar splashed on rice paper, and the bitterness of last night's whiskey rose in his throat. The corners of the poetry collection in the backpack have curled, and the editor's notes on the title page hurt my eyes: "The imagery is old and lacks novelty." The sound of oars came from the reeds, and the old boatman's black-sailed boat broke through the sparkling gold. "Young man, do you want to take a boat?" The boatman's pipe flashed dark red sparks, and the wrinkles were embedded with the river breeze over the years. When Lu Chuan stepped onto the boat, his canvas bag rubbed against the side of the boat, and a few dead leaves fell into the water. "You look like a writer?" The old boatman threw the anchor into the shallows, and the copper bell on the bow swayed gently in the twilight. Lu Chuan took out his wrinkled cigarette case, but found it was already empty. The old man handed him a pipe: "Try my 'Golden Silk Drunk', it's stronger than foreign cigarettes." The pungent smell of tobacco rushed into his nose, and he remembered that ten years ago in the ancient town of Lijiang, it was also at such an evening that he wrote his first published poem. A few pieces of duckweed floated on the river, like crumpled letters. Lu Chuan looked at the swaying reflection of the setting sun in the water, and suddenly said: "Have you ever seen a real sunset? Not this polluted red, but pure, like..." He paused, and the embarrassment of being at a loss for words was more turbulent than the rising tide. The old boatman smiled, and the air leaked through the gap between his missing front teeth: "Forty years ago, I was at the source of the Yangtze River. When the sun set, the snow-capped mountains turned into blood corals." As the dusk deepened, Lu Chuan took out his notebook. The tip of the pen hovered on the blank page for a long time, and finally fell: "The wrinkles of the old boatman hide the annual rings of the entire river." After writing, he crossed it out fiercely, and the ink formed a ball of ink on the paper. The old man spat at the bow of the boat, and his voice mixed with the cries of crows returning to their nests: "My grandson also likes to tinker with these, saying it's 'deconstructionism'." The shouts of selling sugar paintings came from the other side, and the sugar threads drew golden arcs in the dusk. Lu Chuan remembered his daughter's fifth birthday, when he used chocolate sauce to draw crooked stars on the cake. At that time, the inspiration was like a spring that never dried up, but since his wife left with the children, those words have dimmed along with the moonlight. The boatman began to tell the story of his youth. In the 1960s, wooden boats were spinning in the whirlpools of the Yangtze River, and the boatmen were bare-chested and shouting. "Once we hit a reef and all the food on the boat was soaked." The old man's pipe knocked on the side of the boat, "But at sunrise the next day, a layer of broken silver floated on the river, it was beautiful." Lu Chuan looked at the old man's calloused hands and suddenly felt that the lines in his palms were all lines of poetry. The wind blew, and the reeds rustled. Lu Chuan's shirt was blown up, like a sailing ship. He opened his notebook and wrote on a new page: "Dusk is the draft of the sky, and the river is responsible for the revision." This time it was not crossed out, and the ink gradually smudged in the evening breeze. The old boatman came over to look, and his turbid eyes suddenly lit up: "This is fresh! It's easier to understand than my grandson's 'postmodernism'." The lights in the village in the distance were lit up, like broken diamonds scattered on black velvet. Lu Chuan took out his mobile phone, and the lock screen was a photo sent by his daughter last year - she was standing on the beach, holding a shell in her hand facing the sunset. The editor’s ultimatum this morning was in the message board: “Submit the manuscript before the end of the month, otherwise the contract will be terminated.” He turned off the screen and stuffed his phone into the deepest part of his backpack. The boatman began to pack up the boat gear, and the sound of the copper bell awakened the sleeping egret. “Young man,” the old man put the pipe into his hand, “this river is spiritual, come and sit more often.” Lu Chuan looked at the river in the twilight and suddenly remembered Borges’ poem: “What makes the dusk even sadder is your absence.” At this moment, something is quietly growing in the twilight. On the way home, Lu Chuan took a detour to the vegetable market. He bought his daughter’s favorite oranges and picked a bunch of daisies with dew. The stall owner was an old lady who forced two cucumbers on him: “I grow them at home, they are fresh.” When the moonlight climbed onto his shoulders, he sat down at the bus stop and opened a new notebook. The first line read: “Life is not about waiting for inspiration, but about learning to hear the footsteps of poetry in the hustle and bustle of the vegetable market.” Back in the rental house, Lu Chuan turned on the dusty desk lamp. The manuscript paper was spread out on the table, like a field waiting to be sown. He poured a glass of cold boiled water, and thought of the "golden silk drunkenness" mentioned by the old boatman, and a smile appeared on the corner of his mouth. The moonlight outside the window came in, illuminating the first line of the poem: "When the dusk kisses the lips of the river, all words begin to sprout." At three o'clock in the morning, Lu Chuan rubbed his sore wrists. The manuscript paper was already covered with handwriting, from the wrinkles of the old boatman to the cucumbers in the vegetable market, from his daughter's shells to the broken duckweed on the river. In the last line, he wrote: "The real poetry is not far away, but in every inch of land you are willing to bow your head and listen." When saving the document, he renamed the collection of poems "River Lanterns". A week later, Lu Chuan returned to the river with a new collection of poems. The old boatman's awning boat was tied to the old place, and the fishing nets were drying on the bow. "I brought you something." Lu Chuan handed over the collection of poems, and the title page read: "Dedicated to all those who ferry people in life." The old man put on his reading glasses and read the first line of the poem, with stars twinkling in his turbid eyes. The sun set again and Lu Chuan stood at the bow of the boat.