White Horse

Reality defeats people like this. You have no power to fight back and can only be led by fate. Around you, some people died and people cried, and some people died and people were happy. This is a place with barren mountains and rivers. Who would have thought that in this eight-hundred-mile-long land of Qinchuan, in this barren northwestern plain and hilly area, on the shore of the Han River, in this backward, remote, declining and desolate corner, in this big mountain, such splendid art could be developed. The flower of art is simply a wonder in the field of traditional art. It is really not easy for these ordinary old artists and peasants to completely inherit and preserve this humble folk art from generation to generation while digging hard on the dirt. People leave their names when they pass by, and geese leave their voices when they pass by. When an airplane flies by, it leaves a white line to prove that it flew here. As for people, some people die without leaving anything behind, just like farmers who spend their whole lives turning over the soil on the yellow soil, and when they die, they are buried under the soil and sleep forever. I wonder if they have long understood that no matter whether they are emperors, generals or commoners, they must sleep under this land forever, and can they be farmers with peace of mind? Are they working diligently on this land during their lifetime to prepare their own tombs after death? I am glad that I live like an ant in this pure land.