A bronze lamp was cast from the hands of craftsmen of the Qin Dynasty and began its two thousand years of wandering.
It shines on the fire outside Xianyang Palace, on the camel caravans on the Silk Road, on the ruins of the Anshi Rebellion, on the incense of movable type printing, on the mast of Zheng He's treasure ship, on the smoke of the Humen Fort, and on the wooden boxes used to move the Forbidden City southward.
Those who hold the lamps are never emperors or generals, but people who cannot be named - a craftsman who casts copper, a hawker who sells lamp oil, a musician who plays the pipa, an apprentice who types types, an interpreter who runs the dock, a cook who plays a big ladle, and a soldier who guards the fort.
They live in the cracks of history, sometimes in embarrassment, sometimes absurdly, and sometimes unable to control their own destiny. But there comes a time when they reach out and pass the light to the next person.
When the lights are there, the mountains and rivers are there.
