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墨書 Inktalez
Encountering the Messenger to the Capital
Author: Cen Shen
The road stretches endlessly to the east,
My homeland lies far away.
My sleeves are soaked with tears that won't dry.
On horseback, I meet you without paper or pen,
Please convey my message and report my safety.
This poem was written by the Tang Dynasty poet Cen Shen, expressing the complex emotions of the poet when he encounters a messenger returning to the capital while far from home.
As I look eastward, the road seems long and arduous, filled with hardships and endless distance. My tears flow continuously due to my longing for home, with "dragon clock" describing the way my tears keep falling. Meeting the messenger on horseback, I find myself without paper or pen to write a letter. I ask him to carry my words back home, informing my family that I am safe and sound.
The entire poem conveys the poet's deep yearning for his homeland and concern for his family through simple language and sincere emotion. The word "encounter" signifies both a chance meeting and reflects the poet's desire for home and hope for news of safety.
Story Title: "The Little Messenger's Dream of Home"
I open my palm, and that piece of letter paper lies in my hand.
It looks somewhat aged, with yellowed edges and slightly blurred handwriting.
But I had never seen such writing before. Curiously, I held it up to the light, trying to see what was written inside. The moment my fingertips touched it, a sudden flash of white light appeared. My vision went dark, and when I opened my eyes again, I found myself on an ancient-looking post road.
I looked around; this was clearly an extremely old street. The buildings on both sides were intricately carved and painted, exuding an antique charm, yet they were very dilapidated. I reached out to touch them but felt only rough dust.
Taking a few more steps forward, I came upon a lush forest. However, I had never seen trees so ancient; their trunks were thick, and their bark was peeling away in patches, as if they had endured the passage of time.
What on earth was happening? I had merely touched that piece of letter paper; why had I suddenly appeared here? A thought flashed through my mind. Could it be that I had arrived in the era from which the letter paper originated? This idea filled me with excitement but also a sense of unease.
I continued walking along this ancient path. The road was narrow and long, with the air filled with the scent of dust mixed with distant floral fragrances. Each step I took on the mottled stone pavement produced faint sounds underfoot, as if whispering something softly.
Scattered along the sides of the road were old houses, some with faded cloth signs hanging at their doorways. Occasionally, a few passersby would walk by, their attire starkly different from mine. I stood there in a daze until a voice pulled me back to reality.
"Young man, where do you come from?"
I turned towards the voice and saw an elderly man with white hair and beard speaking to me.
He was wearing a dark blue robe, his face kind and smiling as he looked at me. I quickly replied respectfully, "Elder, I am..." I was momentarily at a loss for words, unsure how to explain my origins.
However, the old man spoke first: "No need to say more; I already know your identity." He stroked his long beard and said with a smile, "You are the youngest Time Messenger I have ever seen."
Time Messenger? What is that? I looked at him in confusion, waiting for his explanation.
"Since Pangu opened up the heavens and the earth, all things in the world possess spirituality," the old man began slowly. "There are some people who carry a mission and can freely traverse different times and spaces."
"Their task is to convey certain information or items from one time and space to another."
"These individuals are known as Time Messengers."
Upon hearing this, I was taken aback. So, I had become what they called a Time Messenger?
"And what you need to convey is a poem," the old man pointed to the letter in my hand.
I glanced down; the verses on it were unfamiliar to me.
"A Thousand Miles of Yellow Clouds and the White Sun Sets, The North Wind Blows the Wild Geese, Snow Flutters Down. Do not worry that there are no friends on the road ahead; who in the world does not recognize you?"
Who is this poem for? The old man said slowly, "This poem was written by a traveler at the border."
"He wishes to deliver this poem to a friend in the capital."
"Youth, are you going to fulfill this wish for him?"
I thought for a moment and nodded solemnly.
The old man stroked his beard and laughed heartily, "Very well, I believe you can definitely do it."
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