Here is the translation of the given content: "" The translation for this is: "Xu Zhimo's Prose Collection"

Author: Xu Zhimo / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features:
Thoughts on the Indian Ocean in Autumn Last night was the Mid-Autumn Festival. At dusk, a large curtain of mother-of-pearl clouds hung in the western sky, blocking the tide of the setting sun and merging the sea and sky into a dark blue. It was silent, as if a black-robed nun were praying before the holy throne. After a moment, I heard sobbing coming from the ship's stern canvas, as the low-hanging clouds mixed with misty rain compressed the sea line to resemble a lake. The shadows along the edge were indistinguishable as either mountains or clouds, but the traces of tears were scattered throughout the air and water. Another autumn mood! The rain, though fierce, carried a sense of desolation and sparseness, mingling with the gloomy atmosphere. It whispered in the ear of my soul, "Autumn!" My originally joyless heart could not resist such gentle infiltration, and thus, the autumn thoughts accumulated since spring and summer merged with the sorrow from the moment, giving birth to a frail infant—"Melancholy."
The sky had already grown dark, and the rain had stopped. But the clouds that had been weeping just moments ago still hung loosely in the sky, revealing only faint, pale light, signaling that the moon was already dressed and waiting to make its appearance. Meanwhile, the ship's smoke billowed wildly, forming a long bridge of scales that stretched to the horizon, linked with the emerald foam of the ship's wake, creating a contrast of light and shadow, as if clinging to the traces of the west. A bright star appeared in the gap of the northern clouds, cheerfully inquiring about the news, like a newlywed's attendant, dressed in radiant splendor. But the bride still lingered, not yet appearing.
When I was young, I would sit motionless by the window on Mid-Autumn nights, waiting to see the moonlight. If the sky was filled with clouds and mist, I would worry for the "bright moon." But if I saw fish-scale clouds, my heart would rejoice, and I would silently pray for the moon to bloom quickly, for I often heard that if there were "fish-scale clouds," the moonlight would appear. However, before the moonlight could shine, my mother would force me to bed, so the moonlight remained only an unfulfilled image in my mind until now. Now, the sky is filled with fish-scale clouds, and many interesting memories from my childhood instantly came to mind—but where has my innocent heart gone now!
Moonlight possesses a mysterious allure. It can stir the waves of the sea and evoke sorrowful emotions. Whispers under the moon can pile into mountains, and tears shed under the moon can nurture a hundred acres of orchids, a thousand stems of fragrant lilies. I suspect that sorrow is an innate inheritance of humanity, for otherwise, why would we, during our childhood years when we were unaware of sorrow, often shed tears when facing a flood of bright light? But tonight, I did not shed tears—not because I had none to shed, nor because civilization had eradicated my pure instincts, but because I felt a sacred sorrow that stirred my curiosity to analyze this mysterious "cold-eyed, bone-weary" gaze, as Chateaubriand might have called it. Cold intellect is always the enemy of hot emotion; they cannot coexist. But on such a romantic moonlit night, to practice cold analysis would seem inhumane! So, I shifted my heart's focus, allowing my sharp intellect to rise again, letting the sorrowful tears flow naturally, and listening to the music they created. I let my poetic soul wander freely, watching what dreams it might uncover.
The moon was shining between the clouds, surrounded by a yellowish halo. Gentle mists passed before it in waves. The hundreds of undulating silver channels on the sea surface all played a mournful melody in the faint breeze. The areas of the sea not touched by the moonlight rose and fell in the dark, unsure whether it was longing or sorrow. I poured a part of my emotions into the natural phenomena before me, while holding paper and pen, gazing at the moonlight, hoping to see the traces of autumn thoughts on the ground tonight in its pure radiance, and to hope that they would crystallize into the essence of noble emotions in my heart. For with its swift light, the moon tonight has traveled across the world—hasn't every quarrel and affection on earth passed through its wise eyes?
On the banks of the Ganges River in India, there is a small village. Near a lake, embroidered with dense banyan leaves, sat a couple lost in love. On the grassy field between them lay an ancient bronze incense burner, burning premium incense. The gentle, lingering smoke curls, filled with rich, fragrant vapor, symbolizing their love. Moonlight gently descended from the clouds, leaving a tender kiss on the pearls around the woman's neck and the tip of the incense smoke. With a faint smile, it climbed back onto its cloud raft and sailed away.
In another house, on the upper floor, the curtains were not drawn. Fat, lush camphor leaves danced playfully on the glass. Moonlight peeked through the window, revealing a small mosquito net in purple silk, where an angel-like child slept. She gently approached, caressing his soft eyelashes and rosy cheeks like a ripe peach. She combed his round forehead with her silver fingers, smiled warmly, and then returned to her sea of clouds.