Music is a kind of happiness, a sound of thinking, and a revelation of wisdom. Below is what I brought to you for your enjoyment.

: Yesterday Again

The first time I heard "Yesterday Again" sung by Karen Carpenter, I was in high school. The young English teacher said, let's play a song for you. Then I heard Karen Carpenter's voice, spread out in the broken sunset, like a gorgeous blanket, covered with noble sadness.

This is a compelling temperament. Although at that time and place, I had no idea who Karen Carpenter was or what she was singing, but the voice was It reaches the human soul unstoppably and shines brightly.

It has been 10 years since I listened to this song again. The so-called snap of a finger is just the distance of listening to a song. For more than 10 years, her voice still floated in that melody, singing over and over again: "When I hear the song of love, I will sing along with it, reciting every word and every sentence in the song..." and those who listen But he is already old.

Her voice has a familiar flavor to us. It is kind and soft. It is like the rice cakes she ate when she was a child, or the cotton pillow she is used to sleeping on at home. Our hearts, tired of walking in the mortal world, gradually quieted down in that voice: "When I was young, I loved listening to the radio, waiting for those songs I liked. When they sounded, I would sing along... "Have you ever had such a good time? Of course you have, so treat her as a confidant. The slow music and mellow voice are like a piece of sugar cube melting into coffee, making people feel at ease and even happy. The sunlight outside the window is as light as falling feathers. A pot of daffodils or spider plants, stretching in the sun. The shadow of a bird passed by the window. Time is so peaceful, is this what the so-called eternity is like? In this life, I will sit here warmly, and in this life, love will stay here.

I have seen an old movie in which the hero and heroine were lovers when they were young. On the days when they fell in love, they went to the wild to pick wild flowers, the kind of small wild chrysanthemums, white, yellow, purple, a large area. They sang together in the wind. The boy was cool and the girl was beautiful. They sat together watching the sun set and listening to the ebb and flow of the tide. Later, war broke out and they were separated. When they met again, they were already gray-haired. The background is the wilderness, and the wild chrysanthemums are blooming just right, one by one, lively and brilliant. Their eyes met, tears slowly filled their eyes, but they were smiling. After staring for a long time, the male protagonist suddenly pointed to the wild chrysanthemums and said: "Look, the small wild chrysanthemums are still blooming so well." The heroine replied softly: "Yes."

Far away , blue sky, wild chrysanthemums... the story ends abruptly at this point. I thought there could be no ending more heartwarming than this. So what about all the displacement? Look, nothing has changed. The little chrysanthemums are still blooming, just as they were yesterday. What a warm thing!

Baking in the sun with one person The old lady was chatting with her. The old lady talked about things when she was young, and her walnut-skin face actually smiled like a flower. She said: "You don't know, when I was young, I was very handy. I could embroider, embroider on shoes, embroider on clothes, embroider on pillows and quilts, and make the flowers come alive." Her cloudy eyes , staring into the distance, where a long light gradually appeared.

We stopped talking and let the sunshine fall quietly. "All the good memories reappeared in my mind so clearly that they made me sad and shed tears, as if they were reappearing yesterday." Somewhat melancholy, melancholy and contentment. Yesterday's glory has all happened before, so life becomes complete.

There is a moment, always a moment, when our hearts, without any desire for anything else, are as pure as a baby.

：Pipa Language

When I first listened to the piece "Pipa Language" composed by Lin Hai, I thought it was so beautiful. Like jade, which is smooth and moist, it slides quietly on the woman's white wrist. The woman is stroking the pipa, lowering her head and continuing to play. Time passes by inch by inch, and time cannot be retained. You can't help but think of fate, such an elusive thing. How many years of weathering and tempering did it take for jade to become jade, and then what kind of misses and reunions took place before it was put on a woman's wrist?

The music is clear and reverberating, gurgling like water. flow through. With a slight ringing, the mountains are high and the roads are far away. The wind blows and the fox comes. Yes, it easily reminds people of the fox under the moon. It is a fox pregnant with love. For the sake of earthly love, it is willing to throw away a thousand years of Taoism and just want to be an ordinary woman in coarse clothes. This, however, doesn't work. So love is isolated from the smoke and dust. With the sound of the pipa, who changed the makeup from tears to red makeup?

My heart is filled with sadness, as if many past events are intertwined. Open your eyes, the sunshine outside the window is just right, and the flowers in the world are blooming brightly and lively. It's some chrysanthemums. The colors of late autumn become warmer because of those chrysanthemums.

Warmth? What kind of word is this? As soon as I read it, my heart warms up. How could life be without such warmth? The warmth of a handshake, the warmth of a hug, the warmth of thinking about you, even the warmth of an eye contact. Because of this warmth, life has the courage to continue. In "Pipa Language", what is missing is this kind of warmth. It is like a flower isolated from the world, with a single branch, beautiful but desolate.

Empty is the fallen leaves. The moon appears in the clouds.

The woman is holding the pipa, is her face half-covered? She is sitting under the moon and playing, one sound at a time, and she can't play what is in her heart. How many good days and beautiful scenery have been wasted, I can't have this thought. Once I have it, my sleeves will be full of tears. What a shame! She just played and played, and the music fell like rain under the eaves, drop by drop. It is also like a mountain spring, flowing quietly through the cracks in the rocks, tinkling in my heart.

I think of a woman I called my aunt. She was my grandmother's sister. Never married. At that time, we, brothers and sisters, all looked towards her like budding flowers. She looked at them with a smile, sometimes touching the head of this one, and sometimes the head of that one, smiling very lonely.

One day, my grandmother took me to see her. It just happened to rain. It rained heavily in autumn. The rain dripped down the eaves of her house and into the gutters, with a "tick" sound and scattered in all directions. Another drop, another "tick" sound, and it spreads out... like this, endlessly. My little heart suddenly felt so painful that it was about to break. I was afraid of being so deserted. Looking back at her, her face was hidden in a layer of darkness. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remove that layer of darkness.

I heard from my grandmother that my aunt was a beauty when she was young. Beautiful women often have two fates, either happy or miserable. And they are all related to love. Thinking of her, she must have been let down by love. In the end, he died of old age in the darkness.

The greatest luck and happiness in a woman's life is not to seek good clothes and good food, but to meet a true love that warms her heart. However, in this world, this desire sometimes verges on luxury.

: The Melancholy of Bressanone

These days, I have been listening to "Bressanone", sung by Matthew Lane.

This is a song about home and wandering. Its background is: In 1992, some places in Canada implemented a plan called "Reindeer Increase" to achieve this goal. , wolves must be hunted in large numbers. Bressanone, that quiet village, that place where warm memories grow, is instantly filled with the sadness of parting.

It must be autumn and winter, with distant mountains, trees, houses, and churches with spires. At that time, the setting sun was setting, and the shadow of the sun was slanting little by little until it disappeared. Mist comes down. The stars began to brighten. The wind carried the sound of the evening bell. The smell of fallen leaves is lonely and warm. Wandering life - man, or wolf, at this moment, standing under the warm sky, on the land they love so much, looking back affectionately: "I stand under the stars of Bressanone/and the stars , also shines on Breller on the other side of the sky/Please let go gently, because I have to go far away..."

The whole song "Bresenon" has a deep melody and a heavy sadness. , like a thick fog that has just fallen, or like a rain drifting by in late autumn, falling outside the window day by day, falling endlessly, making it impossible to see the end. Farewell, dear home. Farewell, my love. "Looking at the white clouds floating around me, the sunset and the moon rising/I leave the stars behind and let them light up your sky." Matthew Lane's melancholy voice, soothing and low, performed this song wetly of. What soaked my heart was not rain, but tears. It's the tears in the eyes.

I can’t bear to look back at you: Bare tree, I love you. Silent hills, I love you. Church steeple, I love you. Even if it's a wisp of smoke from someone's roof, I love it, I love it. Those ordinary things become so kind and unforgettable at the moment of farewell. Where should I go with my slow footsteps? I look around at the vastness, and when I turn around, I see the dangerous mountains and the distant horizon. My dear home, I can never see it again, my dear you, I can never see it again...

A girl who listened to this song told me that she is most afraid of hearing the sound of the train now. When I hear the sound of the train, I think of the song "Bressanone", and my young heart is filled with tears. She cried because her dear one took the train to a distant place. She missed him, and she wanted to be at this end of the train, waiting for him to come home.

I gave her my blessing. With love guarding her, she will never get lost. This is the warmest waiting in the world. I'm just afraid that after one goodbye, my soul and dreams will cease from now on. Like the pack of wandering wolves under the Bressanian sky.

I think of a friend who lost money in business and went to the northwest to make money. When I left, I felt desperate - family ties were indifferent, friends were alienated, and there was no warmth to be found in my hometown. He left almost as if fleeing. But deep in that prairie, on those nights when the moonlight was so thick that it could make people drunk, what he was thinking about was his hometown.

One day, he couldn't help but miss me and called me in the quiet night. There was no cell phone signal deep in the grassland, so he borrowed someone else's satellite phone to call me. One minute, ten dollars, he didn't care. He said that he wanted to hear my voice and the voice of his homeland. It turns out that after traveling to Yangguan thousands of times, what I miss the most is my home. It may be just a few green bamboo poles, or it may be just a big bird's nest on a bare branch... It is rooted in life, whether for humans or wolves, home is the only thing that matters. It is the place where the soul finally takes refuge.

I hope that we can all return to Bressanone in our dreams, and that all souls will no longer wander.