Chapter One

 

Ching Ming [1] has probably gone. All of the crab apples have blossomed, haven’t they? The solar terms of this year seem to come by a bit later than they are supposed to be because butterflies are still too weak to dance around. Bees, however, always look strong since the day they were born as though to them this world was full of joy and happiness. Up in the sky there are three and four white clouds, small and light. Swallows are playing with, as well as decorating them with their tiny body shape and color. It is windless but the willows are deliberately swaying as if making jokes with greenness of the spring. Quietly the greenness in fields is creeping up the hill but it starts fading possibly because it is getting weak and exhausted while ascending; so at the top of the hill your eyes are prone to come across the color of yellow rather than green. Trees half way up the hill, though not so green, show their softness still, and I guess the blue sky behind the hill is supposed to be warm enough. If not, why are the wild geese, singing happily, flying straight there in lines? Those March-orchids, which have got flowers bigger than their leaves, are shyly hiding in concave stones.

 

The perfume of the hill can only be caught with eyes closed. Forget about the sources of it. Look, even the leaves from last year still smell so good. Over there are several little white goats, bleating not so blissfully, a little bit sad it may sound. Occasionally, one may come over, no horn but with long beard, pointlessly staring at a big stone for awhile and stumbling away with its tiny cute tail.

 

Lying at the hillside soaking up the sun, I am yearning for nothing. But the elements of making poems are naturally dropped into my heart, on the green sea of my soul without a sound, only waves left to make up a smile before reaching my cheeks. Yet not a single complete sentence comes to my mind. In universe of poetry, I only feel like a usual punctuation mark somewhere in a poem.

 

Getting more and more relaxed under the sun, I am now capable of realizing how jubilant butterflies’ wings feel. I sit and hold my knees to my chest, slightly swinging around at the same rhythm with the willows. Each tiny yellow-green leaf on the branches of them looks like a small human ear conscientiously hearing the sound of the spring. Sometimes I squint up at the sky…and thank that white cloud, which still has a swallow lingering around. It is so small that you can hardly see it, just like seeking a small black mole in a boundless field of blue light. My soul wishes to be up there, almost flying.

 

A path afar on the hillside is like a sort of yellow line within the green-painted province on the map. Take a look at that enormous wheat field, it seems to be flowing down from the hill as the terrain is getting lower and lower, until it is blocked by a large plain of deep-green larches. Hopefully, I look for a bay beyond it, so I stand up, step higher and have a look: but there is not, only trees and trees out there, so dim and vague, in between are some small hamlets; and softly the breeze brings me a tiny crowing sound.

 

Underneath the sunny sky of the spring, the sound of crowing from the distance saddens me a little. Perplexity is eating my mind and I do not know what I am seeing is true or not. I guess it is just a golden thread made of voices between dream and reality. Wait a minute, I think I have caught a glimpse of a blood-red comb, in my heart, in the hamlet or somewhere I am not familiar with. It is—I wish it was snow white—a cock in fact.

 

I sit myself down again; oh no, just easily lying down I should say. I leave my eyes half opened so as to gather the blue light from the sky. Deeper and deeper I get to see, also much higher; at that moment of amazement, I suddenly feel some blue spots, warm and bright, dripping down on my eyes, almost into my mind. After a while, I fully close my eyes and begin to appreciate the deep blue sky as well as the smiling atmosphere of my heart.

 

Yet I am not completely falling asleep but I know it is not far from my dream. Why can I hear birds joyfully singing and calling still, loud and clear? It is fairly strange to me that I am able to see that place again and again, as long as there comes the time when I am on the way to my deep sleep. I do not know where and what exactly it is but it is always floating in front of my eyes before I fall into my dream. Let’s just call it someplace ahead of dreaming.

 

Being much closer, I get to know that it is a small place without any hills and seas; a garden without clear boundary; more precisely, an irregular triangle with three of its pointed angles dipping into flowing darkness. One of them—it always catches my sight first—is a field of golden yellow and deep red flowers, dense and piling up, totally dark behind without a ray of sunlight. The dark background makes the flowers seem much more red and yellow, which gives you a bit of a sense of horror coming out from their beauty, like painting red tree peonies on the surface of a big black vase. By now I understand: the dark background enables the flowers to embrace their colors tightly, diffusing not a tiny bit out. Without sunlight, colors can only lie on the ground instead of soaring to the sky. Naturally, I like to take a look at this land first of all. Provided I see it, I will be able to get to know the whole picture, in much the same way as the fact that once you see the Aromatic Mountain , you will know by and by where the Cloud-jaded Temple [2] is located.

 

The other two angles: the one on the left is a steep hilly area covered with gray-purple wild flowers, which, though not so pretty, reveal their inner strength and power. At times, the moon may shed some light of silver on that part of gray and gracefully induce the inspiration of poetry. But I have no idea where to find that little moon right now. Whatever, I like it. I love that color of purple deepened probably by frost, seems like my pretty mama wearing her deep-purple cheongsam [3] when she was young. On my right hand side is the most beautiful... a small thatched cottage with trailing plants spreading around its front door, surrounded by the China roses all innocently blossoming, pure and pinkish.

 

Shifting from left to right, the colors of gray-purple, red-yellow and pinkish will come to my eyes in order as if watching the fall change back slowly into the spring. Time is being turned back. Against the current, we no longer start from the cradle to the grave. A rose will also come to an end by keeping its perfume and color ever after.

 

There is a plain of deep-green grass in the middle of the triangle, soft and thick, also a bit wet. Every short leaf seems to be stretching upward, trying to hear the sound of raindrops afar. No wind, all flying insects are hiding away. In a little ghostly world like this, only colors can live on.

 

Through my real experiences, I have never seen someplace like this before, but it exists, always there, ahead of my dream. Who is able to figure it out what exactly it is like—deep greenness of England ?; small purple-grassed mountains of Scotland ?; gloomy dark forest of Germany ?; or even their ancestors a long long time ago. Without any sunlight, some gorgeous places near the equator can be similar to it as well. But it has got no rainbow-like snakes or other colorful animals, oh never mind, I just recognize it.

 

I have seen it time and time again. It is a picturesque scene of poetry in my heart. But I have never been there, that small cottage—either am I trapped and absorbed by those colors or faintly wander into another dream of colors across its grass. It is like a friend of mine who I often run across. We know each other’s names. What we have not done yet is sit and talk, heart to heart. I cannot manage to see the colors of its core. It seems to be composed of somewhat mysterious music—I really wish it could have some beats.

 

I have made up my mind—take an adventure through it.

 

Only by thinking, then miraculously I reach the China roses near that small cottage; am I too afraid of hearing the voice of my footsteps? I am not sure, but China roses do imply a lot to me about the times before and after Tuen Ng [4]. Between two sheaves of sweetgrass, I hope to see someone stick on the wall a piece of deep-yellow paper, on which a scarlet judge from hell was printed. Then again no, this place is too tranquil and the only thing I can hear is the calling of cherries [5] from my heart.

 

The door is closed. The ivory-colored blinds block all the windows and also the door. No shadows of flowers around, because of not enough sunlight; no movements, only silence there. It looks as though this was the place where loneliness originated. As I slightly open the door, placidity and cleanliness together are saying ‘welcome’ to me, yes, for sure they are zealously calling me in. If I say everything inside is so-called ‘human’, then things outside should all belong to ghosts—I hope my words have not gone too far.

 

It is big, separated into two by a large ivory-colored curtain embroidered with little butterflies, one is smaller than the other. In one room, there are not too many pieces of furniture, only a long desk, a small ellipse-shaped table and a chair, all in the color of deep green, not re-painted at all. There is a small greenish cushion in the chair; there are few books on the desk; upon the table a mini-pine in a tub and two ancient copper mirrors, which have got color much lighter than that of the pine. In another, there is a small bed covered by a green blanket almost touching the ground. A small basket, in which are found some dying jasmines, is hanging above the head of the bed. There is a pair of small green slippers decorated with flowers, laid next to a long cushion on the floor.

 

My heart is racing much faster now! Surely I am not getting into a complex and fancy world of poetry because of the place I am staying, its tone is so plain and ordinary. It is not at all a big illusion because I do recognize that pair of small green slippers, embroidered with white flowers.

 

(TBC)