Tail (II)
The last datura on earth was bent over by a pomegranate falling from the tree, becoming humbled and buried in the dust, bowing down to the earth until its death.
When one approaches solitude, one is infinitely close to achieving perfect virtue, yet loses clarity. Indifference awakens wisdom, passion forges the soul.
A faded crimson hue appeared on the riverbank, and with a spring breeze, it spread across the entire land.
The fiery, scorching colors resembled a foolish, ancient revelry, leaving behind a long-ago landscape of vicissitudes after the thick smoke rose.
It burned out, almost dissipated, leaving behind a faint fragrance, as a vulture flew by.
In its harsh gaze, it retains its fondness for food, wolfing it down, and so time turns once more. Red, however, continues to grow relentlessly, until it reaches into the clouds, where it is absorbed by the swirling air currents and transformed into a purple that seems from another world.
She died the night before liberation.
The dilapidated house was like a considerate coffin lid, covering her last vestige of dignity.
When a person dies, it's just a sigh that stops abruptly, the curtain falling coldly before we can even hear the truth. Hesitation and refrain from speaking are not beautiful; they're just a sickly farce.
Some rejoice, some grieve. But joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin; extreme joy followed by profound sorrow is the prelude to death.
The maidservant stood at her door as usual, gently tapping the doorframe with one hand, and said softly, "Grandma, it's time for you to get up. I'll help you with your washing and grooming."
But the reassuring response was nowhere to be heard.
"Grandma, what's wrong?"
Several servants hurriedly pushed the door open and saw her lying peacefully on the hard couch, her fingers slightly clenched and her eyes tightly closed.
The incense sticks in the porcelain cup released a slow, heavy fragrance that drifted into the air, like a mysterious ritual of salvation. There were no monks performing the rituals, but the purity of the rituals remained.
Upon receiving the news, Grandma Yuan rushed over at noon. She took the towel handed to her by the maid and wiped her pale face, saying with tears in her eyes, "Good child, you've suffered so much."
Of the two young wives of the Yuan family, she had always shown her more affection. Yiling, a modern and untamed woman, radiated hatred for the grand mansion, which she could see in her eyes. Whether she hated fate or something else, it no longer mattered; she knew she would always find her place. The Third Madam, however, possessed all the virtues inherent in feudal women: she was submissive and gentle, always genuinely loving everything she had. She understood the coldness and warmth of human relationships, yet she silently ignored the pain, offering her own strength instead. Even after glimpsing the wonders of the world, she stubbornly and simply returned to the past, steadfastly guarding those faded passions of yesteryear. Through her, the First Madam saw herself, but strangely, through Yiling, she also glimpsed herself—a resentful yet hardened version of herself from the past days and nights.
She smiled bitterly, took her cold hand and pressed it against her cheek, tears falling silently.
A dead person is like an icicle, hard and lifeless. But even if an icicle melts one day, a dead person can never come back to life.
This is precisely where life is more important than all other things. Humans only ever have one chance. One wrong step, and they fall into an unfathomable abyss, returning to the endless cycle of the universe.
The Yuan family lost its third wife.
She was buried on the very day people were busy celebrating their victory.
A wooden coffin, seven or eight mourners, the soil collapsing, and the rain pouring down.
This is probably the last rain.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
