At the Foot of the Sacred Mountain: Essays by Feng Qiuzi

Author: Feng Qiuzi
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-12-01
Features: In the memories of Hunyuan, many times it's like thinking and singing Mongolian songs. Wherever you are, you miss Inner Mongolia. When you think of Inner Mongolia, a profound and long-lasting sound fills your heart. The gifts bestowed upon that land by heaven—east, west, south, north, joys, sorrows, griefs—have almost been buried underground. Sparse people roam over the ground with or without grass, appearing in the barren, unproductive patches of land at the edges of villages, swept by the biting north wind. They see the footprints of the past being eroded by sand and stones, gradually weighing the eternal, profound, and unfathomable wilderness. Under the silent, dark blue night sky, the ancient beneath the earth echoes from the gaps between the grasslands and cultivated fields. The taste of the long-simmered sacrifices, with the truth rising from the sea of blood, drifts over every blade of grass with the northwest wind, reaching the hearts. That is the sound of the grassland. In the memories of Hunyuan, many times it's like thinking and singing Mongolian songs. Wherever you are, you miss Inner Mongolia. When you think of Inner Mongolia, a profound and long-lasting sound fills your heart. The gifts bestowed upon that land by heaven—east, west, south, north, joys, sorrows, griefs—have almost been buried underground. Sparse people roam over the ground with or without grass, appearing in the barren, unproductive patches of land at the edges of villages, swept by the biting north wind. They see the footprints of the past being eroded by sand and stones, gradually weighing the eternal, profound, and unfathomable wilderness. Under the silent, dark blue night sky, the ancient beneath the earth echoes from the gaps between the grasslands and cultivated fields. The taste of the long-simmered sacrifices, with the truth rising from the sea of blood, drifts over every blade of grass with the northwest wind, reaching the hearts. That is the sound of the grassland.