Listen to the tide

I think I must like this land and water. Backed by heavy mountains and facing the sea, it has nourished generations of fearless warriors.

I think I have always yearned for this era. Neither silent, nor impatient, all poetic, all sunken and moved.

I think, how I envy this group. Hanging a white sail high, carrying a nervous but determined heart, sailing across the sea to the place where dreams grow.

In that year, the neon dresses of song and dance were no longer gorgeous, and the painted boats of flowers and pink mist were no longer enchanting. The barbaric foreigners opened the gates of the country by force, which immediately shocked the princes and nobles and the common people. The wind and rain of the West beat the prickly pine and blew away the nostalgia. From then on, travel nostalgia is no longer only the distant flute of the hometown, or the bright moon hanging in the sky of the homeland, or the yellowed acacia leaf that I forgot whether it was picked in Jiangnan or Jiangbei.

Or the Yellow River flowing under the Yin Mountain day and night. In this ancient land, new things like spring shoots sucking the dew, from the coast to the interior, spreading. In this catastrophe, what has never been worn out is the thick and warm emotions and the hazy and long poetic meaning that are integrated into the blood of the nation.

The young man listened to the rain and sang upstairs, and the red candle dimmed the tent. In his prime, he listened to the rain in the guest boat, the river was wide and the clouds were low, and the geese called the west wind. Now listening to the rain under the monk's cottage, sideburns have stars. Sorrow and happiness are always heartless, a step in front of the dripping to the dawn.

The afterglow of the sunset dyed the sky red, slowly sinking to the bottom of the sea. As the sun sets, a few seabirds take advantage of the shortage of light to fly hard towards the broken clouds. A sailboat gliding on the bleak surface of the waves, drifting on the river of life, the feelings of homesickness, feelings of life, suddenly diffuse. Nowadays, you and I are wandering outside, but are you afraid of dusk? When the sun is late in the west and the lonely smoke rises, is it still soul-crushing? Compared to the ancient and modern Chinese, I think our emotions have degenerated. The high-speed rhythm of life at up to the material technology has shattered our thick emotions handed down from our ancestors. It was a time when even in the cold winter night, even if only the light of candles, the elders and children gathered together, the laughter was still warm, a time that I have long envied and can never forget.

More than three hundred years ago, the Manchus, in order to remove the Zheng group, implemented a policy of relocation, and all coastal residents were set back thirty to fifty miles from the coastline. This brutal, massive and barbaric demolition buried the Great Ming giving China another chance to start a maritime civilization. More than a hundred years later, when the gates of the country opened again, a group of brave men, no longer willing to be bound to land, sailed in a flat boat to their dream home without rebellion.

"The waters of the seven continents are swift, the winds of Kunlun are fierce; the needle is lost at the rudder, and no man or ship can survive." The distance between life and death is from Minnan to the Southern Ocean, where fierce storms have overturned countless ships and raging waves have swallowed countless lives. If you are lucky enough to reach the Southern Ocean, it is still unknown whether you can continue to survive. Poisonous insects and fierce beasts make people's bones shudder, and fever and plague make people shudder. "If you go to bury someone today, you will be buried tomorrow." This saying circulated in the settlement field can't tell the sorrows of the Minnan people who waded through the sea and crossed the mountains to dream of their homeland, and went far away from the South China Sea. From ancient times to the present, how many people lost their lives on this road, or buried in the belly of a fish, or buried in the wild, a plaque may be the only trace of them left in this world. Despite this, countless Minnan people still repeat the story of yesterday, leaving their hometown, thousands of miles to go overseas to make a living, that dream home is worth their life to exchange.

Last night, the city of Xiamen flowed into my dreamland again and again with the sea water.

The fresh tide lapped at the shore, and there were no words to return. The lonely sea breeze kissed my cheeks and receded unwillingly. The long fishing song, repeatedly sung for thousands of years, and the flickering, fading fishing fire, such as wet tears, in the deep night sky, in the light smoke, whimpering, hazy. The moon that hangs far out at sea, the moon that has shone for thousands of years, shining in the South China Sea of yesteryear, shining in the hearts of countless wanderers, gently told me an old story, a sailboat full of hope gliding in her warm and broad bosom ......

Just like that, let me go far away. Like them, with excitement and apprehension, over the valleys and crests of the waves. The sound of the waves is still the same, but not then the night, even if I am carrying an old ticket, and how can I board the passenger ship of the year. I'm not going to dream about it anymore. I only wish that the south wind will be relieved and the waves will be calm; I wish that A-Ma will bless her kind, simple and brave people to reach the end of the sea safely.

And tonight, I will come to mourn those lonely souls at sea, crowning those persistent warriors. The soul returns.