Had heard about bowl kiln, and always wanted to go, but why they. Finally when the trip has been a season in the south in March.
Spring evening, we walked into this village 300 years ago. Bright gravel, reflected on the history of the shadow, blur blur, hazy hazy. On both sides of the Diaojiao Lou, scattered to rely on the foot of the hill, then look weak, people feel bad. Ya Ya's Shueiduei rotation creak and the slow, rhythmic sound of the "bang bang, bang bang" sound, as if coming from the distant echo of the age, then so far away, yet so clear. Smoke rose up, curl Tingting, distanced. This is the bowl of the kiln it? Bowl bowl pottery kiln, or that do? Who can tell me? Yang Yu and down the West was silent, dejected look of the kiln were also silent. A young girl still rhythmically her sieve screen, while the screen out of the soil has been designed to do a bowl. Needs in order to survive, once the bowl kiln is fired with a kiln in the brick.
Ye Mu Shen Chen, I decided to select a camping ancient kiln sites, would like to use the heart to the induction night sigh of history. Lying primitive tent, in the hands of Hu Ming suddenly eliminate smoke, like the very history of weird eyes. Tent outside the sky is not the stars, only clouds in the sky without the moon passing. I try to fly thoughts, as those clouds, so that my return to the past. Jin Xi He Xi? Where this body? Heart, the doubts will never answer. Sanguandian tent, as if sounded 300 years ago, an opera voice. Actors soon as Nuhe last a long time to linger in the ears, get rid of.
Rain came quietly, in the time I am going to sleep. Gently sprinkled on my tent on the Haloxylon creaked. This rain was 300 years ago, rains do that? Perhaps 300 years ago, this rain also fell in a hurry to get somewhere, or returned to customers kiln person, right? They could see that lamp lights do not put out the kiln? I do not know. But I know they are of joy, the joy of going.
Some people say, "kiln" is the soul of the village. So, kiln stopped, the village still live? Silence of the night in the suona tones sounded tragic, it was a parting of the kiln were sent to music, it sounds as if, or 300 years ago the ancient boisterous cheers on the political stage.
History is too heavy and too much like the brain is not even wet. Wake up when it is Star Morning mist shrouded, with wet heart and soul, I hurried to flee the history of the black hole ... ...
Drift of people (ltc.wz165.com/bbs)
Author: zhitu
