In the morning, the mist was floating on the river of loft, like an unopened plume, and slowly laid its way towards the end of the plain of liaoxi. In the streets, the shadows of the twilight fall, the old walls of old bricks swung through, the cycle bells cleared, the old man, who sold the roasted melon, lifted the iron cover, and the white air came out with sweet fragrances — a city that was not noisy but had its own bones. It is not just a coordinates on the map, but it is time to crouch down here, breathe a part of the mountain river, iron it into the wrinkles of the street。
Jinzhou, lia shen memorial memorial, the courtyard remembers the years of the year
Walking into the courtyard of the battle of liao shen memorial will be unwitting。
The platinum tablets have been sharpened by the steps of generations, the two apricots have been stained with frost, the wind has passed, and leaves have fallen as slowly as letterheads. There is no big sculpture, there is only a small memorial wall with a secret name on it, and the writings are not visible, but they keep people still. An old man in a blue suit sat in a bench and swiped an old military medal in silence; several children in a school uniform were crouched in the shadow of a tree with a pencil against a pentagon on the wall. There's no "spot" alienation here
The courtyard remembers the years
— not by the echo of acoustic light, but by the whiteness of space, by the flow of light, by the gloom of grass, by the natural sanctuation of history as a touching daily mass。
The people of jinzhou talk about the past without a sad resonance, as if they were talking about an old date tree from their homes: the branches are dry, the fruits are sweet and thin. In the house there is rarely an inflammation language, a yellow registration form for former civilian workers, a three-line, rough bowl, half-written home books... The objects were placed in a soft light as if they had just been picked up from life and had not been dryed up. The local lecturer, instead of copying it, pointed to a faded shoe pad in the glass cabinet, and said, "this is my grandmother's. She didn't go to the front, but the whole street woman didn't close her eyes for three days or three nights." — the roots of the original heroism, which were always embedded in the soil of pyrotechnics。
When i left, i was standing on the hill behind the memorial door. The sunset is slowly sinking into the mountains, with the leftovers passing through the silver apricotal veins, as well as the new twigs of the walls. And suddenly it becomes clear: remember not to carry a heavy past, but to learn to recognize the temperature of the times when the no-speaks were raised — hidden in the cocoon of one hand, hidden in a lamp's watch, hidden in the undisturbed morning rhythm of this city. So, when the journey took place, the man took his agitation and his heart sank, like a seed sent back to his land by the wind, and learned once again how to take root and grow in the thick soil of liaoxi。
# this summer's on its way #
