When the cracks on the bronze vessels become the index of history, the vegetation, wars and sighs sleeping in the "Book of Songs" are awakening from the mottled bamboo slips.
There is no consecrated "Si Wuxie" here, only the mulberry-picking girl who was buried beside the Weishui River, the subjugated man who watched the millet sprouts growing wildly at the top of Haojing City, and the skeletons of the tenant farmers buried with "July" in the heavy rain. We turned the blood-soaked marriage letter of "The Mob" into the diary of an assembly line worker, made the accusations of "The Rat" cling to the steel frame of the skyscraper, and planted genetically modified rice in front of the idealist's grave in "Bo Zhou".
Three thousand years of life, death and prosperity are just ephemera reincarnated in the same drought. When the rusty gears crush the banquet of "The Deer", do you hear that the names that have been erased by the graceful ode are neighing again in our throats?
