Looking Northwest

The old alley in the south of Fenghuo City is deep, The locust flowers are like snow falling on the skirts of clothes. It's a pity that a fishy night passed by, I still send secret love to the ruins. The city of Xi'an in March was lazy and obsessed. Due to the huge work pressure, I went for a walk after get off work. The air is filled with the dryness of early summer and the sweet fragrance of locust flowers. I walked aimlessly on the thick Ming city wall, and my fingertips traced the rough and cold city bricks. The traces of time are deeply carved on these blue-gray giants, and hundreds of years of wind, frost, rain, snow, and the neighing of people and horses are hidden in the gaps. Unconsciously, I walked to a slightly deserted city gate. When I looked up, the words "Don't curtain the door" came into view. Is there a curtain in the well? There was a slight movement in my heart. This name seemed familiar. It seemed to be a distant symbol in the history books, a pioneer of the Shaanxi Revolution of 1911. Why is a school named after him? Curiosity drove me to stop and lean against the cool wall. The sun shines through the crenels, cutting out spots of light and dark in the ancient corridor. Close your eyes and the noisy modern city sounds seem to gradually fade away. The piece of masonry pressed against the palm of my hand seemed to have an imperceptible warmth, as if it was not a dead thing, but a silent witness, stubbornly retaining the warmth of the past. The wind passes through the city gate. Suddenly, I seemed to hear another sound - sporadic gunshots, noisy shouts, and hasty but determined footsteps echoing on the city wall. I opened my eyes suddenly, and the surroundings were still the same, with only a few tourists walking by talking and laughing. But when I focused again, the scene in front of me seemed a little different. The green color of the masonry on the city wall seemed to flow in the sunlight, and the dark brown spots on it were like blood stains that had not been completely wiped off a hundred years ago, silently seeping into the texture of the masonry. The whistling wind in my ears seemed to bring the anxiety and passion unique to that era. I took a few steps forward in a daze and leaned on the stack to look into the distance. Outside the city wall, there is no longer a modern city with tall buildings, but the endless Guanzhong Plain. It was early summer, and the wheat fields were green and vast like the sea. When the wind picked up again, the wheat waves rolled, one after another, rushing towards the distant sky. On the undulating green waves, I seemed to see the phantom of history: I saw a group of young people who had cut off their braids and had blazing eyes, meeting in secret under the leadership of Jing Wumu; I heard the first shot of the Revolution of 1911 explode in the city of Xi'an, and the smoke filled the air; I caught a glimpse of a young officer with a tall figure and clear eyes like stars, standing side by side with Jing Wumu, silently but firmly looking forward; A few years later, the beacon fire of the Anti-Japanese War dyed the sky red. The sons and daughters of this land once again took up arms and built a new Great Wall with their flesh and blood... The wind passed over the wheat fields and also passed over the young and resolute faces. It blew away the gunpowder smoke, but it could not blow away the loyal souls and oaths engraved on the land. When the wind blows, the waves of wheat lie low, and another year begins. The wind blows again, and the past emerges, as if it were a lifetime ago. I stood for a long time, my heart clenched by an indescribable emotion. It was not just a nostalgia for the past, but more like a resonance across time and space, heavy and hot. This brick, this section of city wall, this city gate named after him, they remember. I turned around and pressed my palms tightly against the cold blue bricks again. This time, I clearly felt a pulsation, weak but stubborn, like the heartbeat of the earth, passing through the thick soil of time, into the palm of my hand, and reaching the atrium of my heart. The story is not buried in the loess, it is in the wind, in the waves of wheat, in the silent masonry lines, waiting to be heard. Purpose: Feelings of family and country