Ice Bird

I sat in front of your tombstone, motionless, like a big black frozen bird.

The tears were cold, spreading across my face, and the cold air soaked in with a spicy sensation.

I sat dumbfounded, not saying anything, wanting to say something to the throat but could not come out. I didn't even think about anything, just a blank, like this dim, bleak world in front of me, full of cold.

What can I say to you? Even the happiest things are frozen. Even sad words are not said to you, they are also frozen. As on so many days, the weather is especially sunny, and the sun at noon is even a little blinding, and yet, it is especially cold.

My heart is like this, even if it is sunny, it is still bone-chillingly cold.

Today, however, the sky is cloudy, without a ray of sunshine, only cold. The cloudiness is controlled by God, which is not so kind to know that I am coming to see you today and not to put that lie of a sunny day in front of us.

It was cold, but I sat quietly, not shivering. Only a living soul would shiver in such a cold world, and my soul was taken away from you. But I could feel the cold, cold feet, cold legs, cold body, cold face, and cold heart.

I silently looked into the distance and looked with you. Jade Mountain only shows a few gray tops, a frozen silence. It is not fogged below, fog is alive, that may be haze, gray and yellow, like the powder of the cold world, but frozen there, motionless. The house on the opposite beam, not strikingly white anymore, lost its green, lost its life, standing grey and dull among the frozen grey-black trees.

The opposite slope, which I knew was full of acacia trees, had curved black trunks, like a group of frozen fugitives, showing their strikingly hobbled legs. The branches were the same color as the hillside, gray and grey. I knew that the color of the hillside was the color of dead grass.

A small depression slowly rose a smoke, next to a black spot, I knew it was a man, and the white mass next to him must be a sheep. What he was doing I don't know, and what the sheep were doing I don't know. In this cold world, no fire can be seen, only smoke, silently rising, silently scattered, can not bring a trace of warmth, just like the paper money I just burned for you, leaving no warmth, that gathered together, like a desperate heart that was peeled away layer by layer. And those blown away by the wind are pieces of frozen tears, the wreckage of the heart.

I didn't turn around, I knew it was a magpie, a magpie, and I believe it was looking at me like a frozen bird. It kept calling for a while, the sound was clear, it was the only sound I heard, I heard concern, I heard comfort.

But it flew away to find its warmth in this cold world, and it could not stay with me. Could it be that you asked it to persuade me?

I smoked a cigarette and from time to time turned my head to look at your grave, only to be frozen and scattered yellow soil, I know you are inside, I vaguely see that yellow soil above your smile, a forever warm and confident smile.

Suddenly, not far away came a heart-stopping rumbling sound, I think it was a burst of thunder, but I quickly denied it, three nine days where the thunder? But I couldn't help but hold my breath and listen, I didn't know what this portended.

I stood up and placed my phone in front of the tombstone, playing the song I sang to you, the poem I read to you, and I could hear my trembling, my choking, my sobbing.

More than ten days ago, the candle for your tombstone was blown out by the wind, and I lit it, and I watched the candle flame swaying in the cold air that would go out at any time, a big, clear teardrop. And then burned out incense, prostrate on the ground, a stream of frozen tears.

The whole world was gray, except for your tombstone, which was tightly wrapped in a dark red quilt, like solidified blood.

I slowly small step home, like a big frozen bird, with dead leaves under my feet emitting an ear-piercing cracking sound.