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Singer at Sunset
Literature夕阳下的歌手
Huang Feng Xu Maobin
From Xianguan Pass in the northwest of Shanxi Province, we headed to the neighboring meander. There were twists and turns along the way. As soon as the Yellow River appeared in front of us, this song echoed in my ears. More than 20 years ago, I was familiar with this song, called "Ninety-nine Bends of the Yellow River in the World", but some lyrics differed from version to version. It is said that this song was originally collected from Jia County in northern Shaanxi, which is now Jiaxian County, the hometown of "The East is Red", and was composed by an old boatman named Li Siming. When this song was recorded in 1942, Li Siming was in his sixties. The singing that echoes in my ears is like a rope on the back of a man on the river, bringing out a grand scene in my mind: the sun is running on the Loess Plateau, and the nine-to-eight-turn Yellow River is coming from the sky. The river is surging, and an old boat is seen in the turbid waves. The bare arms of the man on the river are shining with bronze light. The rudder standing upright on the bow is steering the boat while shouting a song at the top of his lungs. It seems that it has been sung for a thousand years, and it has been sung for ten thousand years, as eternal as heaven and earth.
From Xianguan Pass in the northwest of Shanxi Province, we headed to the neighboring meander. There were twists and turns along the way. As soon as the Yellow River appeared in front of us, this song echoed in my ears. More than 20 years ago, I was familiar with this song, called "Ninety-nine Bends of the Yellow River in the World", but some lyrics differed from version to version. It is said that this song was originally collected from Jia County in northern Shaanxi, which is now Jiaxian County, the hometown of "The East is Red", and was composed by an old boatman named Li Siming. When this song was recorded in 1942, Li Siming was in his sixties. The singing that echoes in my ears is like a rope on the back of a man on the river, bringing out a grand scene in my mind: the sun is running on the Loess Plateau, and the nine-to-eight-turn Yellow River is coming from the sky. The river is surging, and an old boat is seen in the turbid waves. The bare arms of the man on the river are shining with bronze light. The rudder standing upright on the bow is steering the boat while shouting a song at the top of his lungs. It seems that it has been sung for a thousand years, and it has been sung for ten thousand years, as eternal as heaven and earth.