Selected Works of Mu Dan - 60th Century Literary Masters

Author: Mu Dan
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: The cold of winter gathers here, friend. For the child, it is a sorrowful season, for he still smiles with the laughter of spring—when the rebel passes through the fallen leaves, shivering, shrinking, proud of his own blood; why does the world peel away in oblivion, gone, gone, it is a greeting between each other, and the air filled with rich faith. And some walk on the land of no home, trudging through experience, their lost souls no longer content with the warmth of a single angle, the homesickness in vain; some close the doors of their hearts, against the wind, walking the path of failure, though they are faithful in any situation, the flowers of spring fall behind time.
Because our background is that of millions of people, tragic, passionate, or ignorant. They fight alongside fear, selfish, they are the walls that defend the cities. We see countless mice, people—avoiding, scheming, emerging, dominating the brave, or gaining fame by donating wealth, the pillars of society. We see that this realistic attitude surpasses any of your ideals, only it is not destroyed by war. Obedience, applause, suffering—these are the only responsibilities of a crying conscience—silence.
Against this backdrop, the cold wind blows into today and tomorrow, scattering the permanent homes and temporary lodgings where we have long resided. What do we do? What do we do? Life forever tempts us to seek comfort in suffering, to crave the trap of ease, ah, for it only comes once, no longer to return; it is also an act of revenge, finally legally trampling others' hearts with contempt, bullying, and hostility, though sinking into mutual harm. Or half-dead? The desires that creep in daily isolate it, barely surviving in decay, assuming your heart holds a statue of stone, carve it, carve it, with the strength left over, yet daily newspapers will shock it, persuading it to follow the current with threats, perhaps it will feel exhausted and tip over, laughed at by the cynicism of the times; but it cannot be certain that it is the god of the future, this pains us day and night. Scattered knowledge has made us no longer trust the love in our blood, and its flaws drive us to exile ourselves voluntarily, doing nothing, because we believe in nothing, in gloomy days, in the expectation of knowledge, we think of the powerful childhood.
This is death. The contradictions of history press upon us, balancing, poisoning every impulse we have. Those blind ones will vent what they think, while wisdom makes us weak and incapable. What do we do? What do we do? Oh, who is to be held responsible for such crimes; an ordinary person, within whom lies countless assassinations, countless births.