May 26, 2023

Wheatfield

The land, wheat overhead

Harvest, I lie

My desire plain to see


The wind blows,

meaningless, blows away

a mild passion,

can't tell if it’s staying or leaving

I stand at the edge of the field,

Looking out toward trees,

Sixty years in a glance,

a whole lifetime for someone

Full is full,

Empty is empty,

I am too young,

don't know how to tell a story

In autumn, it might rain 

Crops have their own destiny,

I lie on a bamboo mat,

just resting

— Koala

 June 4, 2023

Dear Koala,

The wheat fields pass from green to gold

to green again, if they may.

Grains of care and freedom form a bubble --

a memory of feeling, of growing, of being.

The warmth of a crescent smile.

Regards,

Inner Peace

June 11, 2023

Dear Inner Peace,

Let me show you my world.

Best,

Koala

(Translation)

At dusk, I stood on the field ridge of my hometown for the last time. It was summer, and a gentle breeze calmed all the unfinished sorrows. The evening glow stretched my shadow long, long and scattered the small path behind me far away.

Perhaps it's been just a few days, but this place will no longer exist. Maybe other people's fruit trees will be planted here, or perhaps this patch of land beneath my feet will be covered with bricks and tiles, forever hidden in darkness.

Standing on this narrow little path, within my sight are several dilapidated houses, scattered fields that can be seen at a glance, and a few chickens clucking and chirping.

What used to be vibrant and lively is now overgrown with weeds. I remember when I was young, I saw vast fields of lush green or golden plants taller than me. During their ripening season, my sister and I played hide-and-seek and frolicked on the small path.

Facing the direction from which the wind blew, the air carried the heavy fragrance of the earth.

Not far away is a small building that used to be my home. After my grandfather passed away, my family moved out, probably several years ago. Only the village entrance remains, with the pumpkin pond shrinking year by year. Standing by the pond, I can still see my father from my childhood, as he described, frolicking in the water with bare arms.

Perhaps in just a few years, the house will collapse, crumbling into a pile of bricks, cement, and soil, then blown away by the wind, eventually becoming flat ground. Maybe from now on, I will have no connection to this place, or perhaps it will be adorned with new graves. After several decades or even centuries, my ancestors and I will all rest on this land, facing the yellow earth and turning our backs to the blue sky.

During that time, moments felt so long. I once moved a bamboo chair and rested with a straw hat covering my face. When I opened my eyes, I could see several yellow butterflies flying over the wall. At that time, I was still so innocent, and I secretly imagined if there were Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai among them.

The second floor of the old house had a large windowsill. When I was not tall enough, my grandfather brought a small stool and held me on it to look into the distance.

The fields extended to the mountains at the end. My grandfather's big hand held my small hand, tracing the curve of the mountains. The lines he drew carried my initial yearning for this colorful world.

All these things always remind me of the Hulan River depicted by Xiao Hong. I also used to follow behind my grandfather, him wearing a large straw hat and me wearing a small one, jumping and hopping, pretending to help but actually playing in the fields. Sometimes, accidentally, I would step on the newly sprouted baby bok choy, burying it back in the soil. My grandfather's helpless yet indulgent smile is something I have never forgotten until now.

Much later, I still liked to stand on the second-floor windowsill and look into the distance. But I no longer needed to stand on a stool, and I had even grown taller than my grandfather.

The fields were taken away to build a railway, and all that met the eye was the vast expanse of yellow earth. My grandfather stood by my side, feeling melancholic, gazing into the distance and sighing softly.

I pointed to the people wearing safety helmets coming and going at the foot of the mountain and explained to my grandfather that they were building the railway.

"What is a railway?" Grandfather asked curiously.

"It's a kind of car, it's fast, and it can take you to faraway places," I replied.

"How far, exactly?" Grandfather, like an inexperienced child, wanted to dig deep and get to the bottom of everything.

I shook my head. "I don't know, but it's probably longer than the roads you've traveled in half a lifetime."

Deep wrinkles on Grandfather's face suddenly turned into a blooming flower. He touched my head and said, "From now on, we won't ride the tricycle anymore. Grandpa will take you on a train."

I still remember his excitement and pride, his joyful and animated gestures. Maybe at that time, he felt that taking his little granddaughter on transportation he had never seen before was the greatest honor.

But it wasn't until I grew up that I understood that the so-called "later" was an indefinitely distant time, an endless end.

When Grandfather passed away, I didn't come back. As a young child at the time, I stubbornly believed that his life was closely connected to the roots of my hometown. I lost him, and the hometown left me with scars, yet I continued to live my life calmly and numbly.

I gradually drifted away from there.

It was only at this moment that I deeply felt the emotions bound by Jia Dao's words, "Leaving the old country for many days, old friends no longer youthful." No matter how far I am from it, my old country continues to thrive on this land.

I chose to board that train on a winter day. The small square window was covered in fog, and I looked at the misty scenery outside, gently tracing the shape of the mountains with my hand. The droplets rolling down along that curved line seemed to shed tears that I hadn't had a chance to shed. Suddenly, I remembered many things from the past, the youthful days, the naivety, the fearlessness, and the joy I once experienced.

History is always forgotten, picked up, and buried in the dust. But in the flowing years, there are always some hardness and softness that accompany memories, eternal in my life.

Returning once again, the childlike innocence of my childhood has been smoothed by the sharp edges of time. The lotus pond at the entrance is still there, but there is no longer patience to watch a little girl finish washing a bucket of clothes or earnestly scare a group of geese by the roadside.

Standing on the former field ridge, the road beneath my feet still stretches endlessly. It connects the fields of different families, the distant mysterious forests, the mountains that appear in dreams, the unrealistic dreams of childhood, and the nostalgic feelings that I can't separate or put in order.

My hometown has given me a lot but also taken away a lot.

I am no longer afraid of the abandoned urn by the side of the road. I no longer need to cover my eyes and run past that stretch of road. I have finally stopped obsessing over the taste of new snacks in the small shops. I have finally gotten used to not seeing that person who always resides in my memories, no matter where I go. But when I close my eyes, it feels like he is still quietly standing in a corner, gazing at me.

People always say that growing up comes at a cost. I didn't understand it before, but as years pass, the old times become increasingly blurred, tenderness diminishes, and melancholy grows.

We grow until one day we begin to miss familiar people, things, and those old places.

The emotions of gains and losses will accompany us throughout our lives, and we have no choice in the matter.

This is probably the cost of our growth.

But we always possess a powerful ability. When we encounter fragments of the past, we remember all the familiar scenes, people, and feelings. I roughly understand that the past is something I can never return to, but the joys and sorrows, laughter and tears, separations and reunions in the process of growing up will forever reside in my memories. Even though I am empty-handed now, with nothing, when I close my eyes, I possess the gentle strength to confront the world's hardness.

The hometown is still so pure, with blue skies, clear water, and golden corn kernels drying by the roadside. Dandelions and dogtail grass bloom in the fields. There are still groups of children playing in the fields, accidentally falling into the rice paddies and getting covered in mud. The grandfather who used to give me rides on his tricycle has become my father, but I still stand up, with my hair scattered by the wind, letting all the worries dissipate with the breeze. But I often yearn for the old man who used to smoke and wear a straw hat while driving in the driver's seat.

But I know that some things are left behind in the river of history. Those good times that we can never return to have turned into dreams, and only the wet pillow knows the tears we shed.

The mornings and evenings in my hometown are two beautiful calendars, where the lively land repeatedly washes our hearts, returning to tranquility.

The past of the past, we recall old stories. In the not-too-distant future, this utopia in our hearts will still be a place for us to linger, admire, and pay tribute.

Even if the white horse treads on flowers,

I will always be here,

Accompanying you through aging.

June 18, 2023

Dear Koala,

Thank you for sharing your inner world and innocence passed.

-------

For  you

Memory pulls us back sometimes, and holds us together.

Folded into the dust, which has settled in and been trampled upon.

It whispers in the  hallways filled with cracked tiles and glossy mirrors,

A careful whisper on the tails of velvet coats hanging in the closet.

May you find that tear upon the pillow,

May you ride the horse into golden meadows,

With the winds of the past blowing you forward,

With a warm hand waving from behind.

You will be home, soon.

------------

Regards,

Inner Peace