Rain is not only smellable, amiable, but also audible. Listen to that cold rain. Listening to the rain, as long as it is not an earth-shattering typhoon, is always a kind of beauty in the sense of hearing. Autumn on the mainland, whether it’s the raindrops on the sycamore trees, or the sudden rain on the lotus leaves, always sounds a little bleak, desolate, and desolate. Now when I recall it on the island, it is beyond desolate and covered with a layer of desolation. Forgive how much heroism and chivalry you have, I’m afraid you won’t be able to withstand repeated wind and rain. A dozen teenagers listened to the rain, and the red candle was drowsy. Two dozen middle-aged people listen to the rain, the river is wide and the clouds are low in the passenger boat. Three dozen gray-headed monks who listen to the rain are under the hut. This is the pain of the Song Dynasty, the life of a sensitive soul: upstairs, on the river, and in the temple, strung together with cold raindrops. Ten years ago, he lost himself in a heartbreaking ghost rain. Rain, it should be a drop of wet soul, who is calling outside the window.
The rain hits the trees and tiles, and the rhythm is crisp and audible. Especially the knocking on the roof tiles, that ancient music belongs to China. Wang Yucheng was in Huanggang, and the big bamboos that were broken like rafters were used as roof tiles. It is said that if you live on top of a bamboo building, the sound of torrential rain is like a waterfall, and the sound of dense snow is like broken jade, and the resonance effect is particularly good no matter whether you are playing drums and zithers, singing poems, playing chess, or throwing pots.
Roof tiles on rainy days, floating wet streamer, gray and gentle, shimmering when facing the light, and dark when backlighting, it is a kind of low comfort to the vision. As for the rain knocking on the scaled tiles with thousands of petals, from far to near, lightly and heavyly, there are trickles of streams flowing down the tile grooves and eaves, and various percussion sounds and glide sounds are densely woven into one. Wang, whose thousands of fingers are massaging the helix. “It’s raining”, the gentle Cinderella came, her icy slender hands flicked countless black keys and gray keys on the roof, playing the noon into dusk.
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Listening to the rain in an ancient Japanese-style house, listening to April, the endless yellow plum rain, day and night, ten months and months, wet and sticky moss invades from the bottom of the stone steps to the bottom of the tongue and the bottom of the heart. In July, listening to the typhoon and typhoon playing blindly on the ancient roof overnight, the heat wave of the thousand-layered seabed was blown by the strong wind, and the entire Pacific Ocean was overturned, only to press heavily on his low eaves, and the entire sea was on his volute There was a rush. Otherwise, it will be a thunderstorm night, in the white smoke-like gauze tent, listening to the sound of the drum, the torrential rain, the powerful electric pipa, and the palpitations of the roof tiles. Otherwise, the slanting northwest rain slanted on the window panes, and the whip hit the wall on the broad plantain leaves. After a burst of cold rain, the old-fashioned courtyard will be soaked in autumn.
Listening to the rain in the old Japanese-style house, from the spring rain to the autumn rain, from the teenager to the middle age, to the cold rain. Rain is a kind of monotonous and listening music, whether it is indoor music or outdoor music, listen to it indoors, listen to it outdoors, cold, that music. Rain is a kind of music of memories, listen to the cold rain, remember the rain in the south of the Yangtze River, it rains all over the rivers and lakes, it falls on bridges and boats, and it also falls on seedling fields and frog ponds in Sichuan—it is fattening and Jialing River is wet with cuckoo cry. The rain is moist music falling on the longing lips, licking the cold rain.
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The past is far away from the sea. The old house is no more. Listen to that cold rain.
