Library

Mingcun, a remote village hidden in low hills for thousands of years, is the homeland and spiritual home of the Ming clan for hundreds of thousands of years. Today, my hometown is no longer there. Together with the six surrounding villages, they were bulldozed by hundreds of large bulldozers from south to north, from east to west, as if overnight, and they were all turned into a big bald head, flat, clean and distant. There is not a single crop, not a trace of weeds, and naturally there is no house, no wisp of smoke, no crowing of frogs, not even an irregular particle of soil on the ground, no singing and flying bird in the sky, and the little flower umbrella I miss so much can no longer fly over the shallow Mingcun River. The mountain is gone from now on; the water is gone without a trace. All that is shaking are the plants and trees of the past, the shouting and the collision of figures, so clear and far away. The ballad that had been sung countless times in the dream was still echoing softly, close to my ears and yet far away in the horizon. Dandelions, dandelions, fly to the west and fly to the east, and they are not afraid of the long distance; Dandelions, dandelions, the water flowing by the long river is cold, and the mountains can warm the heart. Dandelion, dandelion, the sunshine is followed by the autumn rain, the flowers bloom and fall, and the friendship is strong; Dandelion, dandelion, lives lightly in the dust, coming and going like a firefly. Dandelion, dandelion, with luxuriant flowers and leaves but no roots, hurriedly moving from north to south; Dandelion, dandelion, suddenly far away and suddenly close, the hands and feet are light, the mountains are high and the water is gone without a trace. Dandelion, dandelion, the spring flowers have dispersed to welcome the midwinter, and the descendants will flourish together; Dandelions, dandelions, spend their lives in the wilderness, gathered and separated in the wind and rain.