It has been raining since early in the morning. Rain is not an uncommon thing, but it is spring rain, and as the saying goes, “Spring rain is as precious as oil.” And in the midst of a rare drought, its preciousness can be imagined.
“The spring rain is very small and silent, so small that it is “nothing”. However, I am now sitting on the balcony of a small house, with a large tin roof. The eaves dripping down from upstairs hit the tin, hit the sound, so it is not “fine silent”. According to common sense, I sat there, with a dead text, should have needed a very quiet environment, very quiet mood, in order to settle down, into the role, to decipher this heavenly book-like stuff. The sound of the rain knocking on the iron should be extremely annoying and must be removed.
However, the opposite is true. I sat quietly, heard the sound of raindrops overhead, at this time there is a sound better than no sound, I felt in my heart an immense amount of joy, as if drinking the dew of immortality, sucked the daigo, a big floating immortal probability. The sound is sometimes slow, sometimes urgent, sometimes high, sometimes low, sometimes loud, sometimes sinking, sometimes intermittent, sometimes like the sound of gold, sometimes like a yellow bell, sometimes like a large pearl, sometimes like a small pearl falling jade plate, sometimes like red coral sinking in the sea, sometimes like playing the zither, sometimes like dancing thunder, sometimes like a hundred birds singing, sometimes like a rabbit falling falcon, I can’t stop thinking about, I can’t help it, my heart blossomed, the wind at the bottom of the pen. Dead words seemed to come to life, and I seemed to be overflowing with youthful energy. I seldom have such a spiritual state in my life, and it is even more difficult for me to explain it to outsiders.
In China, listening to the rain is originally a matter for elegant people. Although I think I am not a complete layman, it is hard to say whether I can be considered a refined person. I am probably a creature between elegance and vulgarity. In ancient Chinese poetry, there are quite a few works about listening to the rain. By the way, it seems to be rare in foreign poetry. My friend Zhang Yong remembers his cousin’s poem: “I often dream of the spring pond to add beautiful lines, and every time I hear the night rain I remember the joint bed.” It is quite poetic. Even Lin sister in “Dream of the Red Chamber” liked Li Yishan’s line, “Staying to listen to the sound of rain in a withered lotus”. The most famous word for listening to the rain is of course “Yu Beauty” by Jiang Jie of the Southern Song Dynasty, which is not a long word, so I’ll just copy it: “Young people listen to the rain and sing upstairs.
The young man listening to the rain song upstairs, red candles dim the tent.
Listen to the rain in the boats of guests in their prime, the river is wide and clouds are low, broken geese call the west wind.
Now listening to the rain under the monk’s cottage, sideburns have been starred.
Sorrow and happiness are always heartless, a step in front of, dripping until the morning.
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