Prose standing on the wasteland of time

Who can explain the time? I can't, and I'm afraid no one can make it clear. Perhaps, a purple lilac petal is swaying, and it is time to shed her beautiful clothes in spring; A yellow leaf swam across and fell to the ground, knowing that summer would cover up its lush vegetation. Even if the old forest on the hillside is bare, winter should give us a clean world. As a result, the hillside became lonely, the river stopped singing, and finally, the sun dimmed its brilliance. The poor countryman stood on the mountain and imagined the bright lights of the big city. They are people standing on the wasteland of time.

The memory of childhood is as clear as the water in Qingwan. Country people will remember that the old trees at the entrance of the village often hear the immature cries of young magpies. The naked boy and monkey climbed the tree, and the little girl with a runny nose clapped her hands happily. A burst of hearty laughter broke out in the village. The almond trees in grandpa's lame house keep greedy children awake at night. They climbed over the wall by moonlight and vomited almonds all over the floor. In the morning, they get up and eavesdrop on grandpa's ugly bawling, the barefoot running river and the trees they planted. The vivid things about the village always haunt my mind, and they are all vivid memories.

What happened afterwards? Later, hardworking country people still lived in the village. The old man handed a chipped old plow share to his son, so there was a landscape on the hillside of the village, and the jumping waves on the old river beach began to tell touching stories. The able man who grows crops invited the best blacksmith in the village early and fumbled under the bed to take out an old iron. He wanted to give the next generation a handy hoe, so a young figure appeared in the field. The man in the village urged his wife to sew beautiful flower bags overnight. At dawn, he sent his children to the earthen wall house at the entrance of the village by bike. However, the disappointing urchin missed his partner and soon returned to the field, leaving the adults helpless. The next life is as calm as a bowl of clear water. No matter how time is stirred, it can't stir up a ripple.

Time is a flowing stream. Once it goes, it will go, and no one can stop it. Just like the setting sun, a reluctant person can't slow down even with the strongest rope. People are chasing the years, and the years are urging people. Old people have sown time, and the next generation will stand on the wasteland of time. Later, the little shepherd boy became a happy young man in the village, and the son who plowed the field had polished his hoe, and the intoxicating wheat fragrance enchanting the night sky in the village. And those who don't want to study and run back to the fields are tired after all with shovels. When the yangko in the village is in full swing, I will tell the curious country people the legends under the neon lights in big cities.

These people who stand on the wasteland of time forget the passage of time and how many cycles the seasons alternate. Maybe they can only remember to wipe the rusty iron plow when it rains for the first time in spring, and to put down the locked wooden fence when the wormwood on the hillside is full of flowers. Or they may remember the lack of rain in rice fields last year. But some memories can't be salvaged after all, just like a sparkling embroidery needle fell into a thousand-year-old well, and the owner knocked over the well, and the water in the sun would be brighter, covering up the light of the embroidery needle. The cultivators will not care about this dusty memory. As long as their sheep are still there and their crops are not lost, everything is still beautiful, and what is lost should be forgotten.

In the end, they will give vilen a period of time, which will stop when his childhood memories are blurred. Cold loess will cover their remains, dirty insects and ants will eat their bodies, a mountain will stand in the field, and yellow cattle will bypass this pure land. They were forgotten by time. The life of rural people is as calm as a bowl of clear water. They are used to getting up early, carrying an old shovel and cultivating a hope. Occasionally, a bowl of clear water can stir up a drop of flowers, and even a tiny particle of dust can do it, so the country people's world will be turbulent, and finally calm down and life will continue.

How many spring and autumn alternate, these people standing on the wasteland of time are always studying the culture and history of food. In the days when they live on food, they know time. A wheat will stand the test of time from the moment of germination, and how many days and nights will it take to bear clusters of fruits. How much grass does a calf need to grow? These grasses are the fruits of time. Who can see the time so clearly? Not for city people, but for country people. They open a yellowed almanac and calculate the 24 solar terms, just like calculating a difficult equation.

The countryman gave time to vilen. They stood on the wasteland of time. What about the village? The village is also located in the wasteland of time. Village is a village of people and things. It is necessary to see clearly where the time of an object has gone. A small tree, which has grown on the floodplain for thousands of years, drank the clear water in the floodplain when it was still a seed, absorbed the nutrients in the loess, finally broke through the ground, and finally made a beam on a house after wind and rain. What about the house? The house is the soul of the village, and the gray ripples are the wings of the soul. There should have been several earthworks in this village when it was young. This is the village I remember. Later, the shepherd's son put a wooden fence around one side of the house, and the sheep also had their own house. The farmer planted a vegetable field next to the house, and the vegetables had a house.

As a result, the villagers passed on their unique skills to their heirs, inherited the unique skills of the next generation, expanded the inheritance of their ancestors, and the village became like a village. Everything seems to be logical. Earth-walled houses were built one by one, and young trees grew into towering trees, and some even became beams on the houses. The wise man drilled several wells that have not dried up for many years. The villagers should cheer, this village has entered a new era.

Everything is getting old from scratch, or it will go to a new road. The village has sent away the old generation of rural people and ushered in a new generation, playing an enduring fairy tale in the long river of history. The bearded old man likes to talk about the entrepreneurial history of his ancestors and warn the next generation to remember the kindness in the village. However, he doesn't know how many generations of farmers have accompanied the village, nor how much loess the river has taken away. He saw that the once adobe house collapsed and a bright brick wall new house was built next to it. Innovative people have introduced unknown plants, some of which have died, some of which may have adapted to strange climate, and they will survive. This village will begin its revolutionary history again.

The fickle is always changing, and there are always some unchangeable rules. People in the village are still digging in the mud pit, and maybe the days of digging out are practical. Accustomed to carrying hoes and pulling plows, rural people don't care how many words they have learned or how many books they have read. Books, ink, pens and inkstones are all illusory things. Good pen and ink are not worth good kung fu. What a simple person.

The alternation of day and night never happened, and time slipped away quietly. The village is on a piece of Yuan Ye, which is the pure land left by time. The people in the village are the soul of this pure land. They have mastered the conversion of solar terms and are familiar with the seasons of various crops. In their eyes, time is a solar term, and life is to be cultivated. It's that simple.

No one can explain the time, I'm afraid not. Who can see the time clearly, the city people can't see it clearly, and the cultivators can really see it. The village is still interpreting legends from generation to generation, and people standing on the wasteland of time have already witnessed this reincarnation.