Let’s bury it shallower.The man said, after a moment’s silence, that since the body is rotten when the rains come, such a burial is to deceive the conscience of a living person.Bury the dead to have strength, but also to tell tricks, if you will give me a few wine money, I help you bury, not half an hour buried.
I remember that night there was no moon, and it was dark all around the old barn, and all the bereaved men who had come in the dark to bury the dead had left me alone.I remember I didn’t have any sense of fear, only to see the day a little blue bright, blood stains on the hands of the pick, the pain has become numb.
When the rooster crowed three times, I buried Yanlang and Yusuo together in one of the deepest and largest graves. When the last shovel of wet earth covered Yanlang’s gray face and the rolling wood in Yusuo’s hand, my body collapsed like a broken wall. Now no one blamed me with sad eyes any more.
Now I really cut off the last trace of contact with the old era, Yanlang died, I really was alone.
I lay upon the new grave of Yanlang and Yusuo and slept at the mat of tomabechi as a pillow.I said I would never be one of those porters and beggars who could sleep anywhere, but I was so tired and sleepy that Day that I slept as soundly as I had ever slept in the dawn sunshine.
After burying the artists killed by the Peng soldiers that night, I suddenly found the sky so close to me, induced me to have countless dreams about birds.All the birds in my dream were white as snow, and all the skies in my dream were transparent.I dreamed that all the birds flew into the sky.
I dreamed of a new world.
The knapsack was empty again, except for a tattered copy of the Analects and a roll of brown rope.I think these two separate objects are the most appropriate summary of my life.
Years passed and I still had no peace of mind to read the Analects, but I kept the book of sages together with the palm cord.I think as long as I do not use the brown rope collar to break life, there will always be leisure to read the Analects of Confucius.
I think of the monk who felt empty after so many years, his indifferent and extraordinary words, his wise and forgiving expression, now flashing to me the nimbus of God.
It was at a flea market in Changzhou that I met Hui Fei.I can’t tell whether her unkempt appearance is a sign of madness; it is appropriate that she sits in a crowded junk street.I saw her selling to passers-by a stack of poems of different colors cut in fine cuts.
article links：Seventeen jugglers were buried in the unmarked grave
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