About
Me and the Eight Greats | One of the Rains at Meihu Lake
Release time:
2023-12-25
One side is lake water, the other is ink paste. The lake water imprints the sun and moon of Jiangnan, drinking in ink and the scent of books. Swallows dart through the rain—flitting from the Gan River, from Tengwang Pavilion, from Shengjin Tower, from Xinghua Building, from Fushan. Flying swallows, flying raindrops. The rains of Jiangnan, the rains over Meihu Lake, nourish day and night the green grasses, shrubs, and towering trees along the shore.
Written by: Xiong Liang
Guess after guess—what kind of rain could it be? Like a pipa melody, it’s gently plucked by the rustling wind and the dense shade of green trees, its tiny droplets rolling softly downward, sprinkling lightly across Meihu Lake.
One side is lake water, the other side is ink pad. Lake water, Imprint the sun and moon of Jiangnan, drink in ink and the scent of books.
Swallows dart through the rain—flitting from the Gan River, from Tengwang Pavilion, from Shengjin Pagoda, from Xinghua Tower, and from Fushan. Swallows in flight, raindrops in flight. The rains of Jiangnan, the rains over Meihu Lake, nourish day and night the green grasses, shrubs, and towering trees along the banks.
The tall tree gently sways, and the pipa plays a melancholy tune.
See it? Four hundred years of notes, bitter, mingled with the sound of rain.
Can you hear it? Four hundred years of ink washes, swelling and moistening in the sound of rain.
The carriages and horses grow sparse, while the rain falls softly and steadily. The bustling streets brim with clamor—some engage in strife, others are filled with dread or weep silently. Whether they’re breathtakingly radiant or utterly forlorn and forsaken, all of it folds and vanishes, hidden beneath the rippling waters of Meihu Lake.
A relic of four hundred years—four hundred years of memories. Has a single raindrop ever pierced through the moss-covered steps beneath the eaves?
The silent rain, silent for four hundred years—within its layered veil of rain, you’ve crushed together myriad mountains and passes, cold rain, fiery liquor, and utter despair, scattering them as mere fragments of words and remnants of old landscapes on aged paper.
Amid the mist and dust of rain, swirling, drifting, bitter leaves—could they be the chaotic traces and solitary shadow of you from those years?
The crisp chill of early spring, the desolate Plum Lake—these have muddied my wine and dampened these thousand petals and myriad flowers. ……
Originally published in: The First Issue of 2023 of “Jilin Prose Poetry”—the “Shining China” Section
