In ancient China, scholars had both cultural and official identities. In everyday life, they and others paid more attention to their official identity. However, it is strange that when the tall hats and broad belts have long since fallen into dust, and the magnificent buildings have all become grassy marshes, those occasional poems written with a brush made of a single bamboo tube can possibly carve mountains and rivers, engrave people's hearts, and never fade away.

  I once had the chance, on a river boat at dusk, to gaze up at Baidi City, in the thick autumn frost to ascend Yellow Crane Tower, and on a New Year's Eve deep night to grope my way to Hanshan Temple. The people around me were packed like a forest, it can be certain that the hearts of the vast majority of people are echoing with those few ancient poems that need not be mentioned.

  People come to seek scenery, but more so to seek poetry. These poems, they could recite from childhood. Children's imagination is sincere and vivid. Therefore, these cities, these buildings, these temples, have been built in their hearts long ago.

  When they grew up, just as they realized they had enough footprints, they also burdened themselves with a heavy mortgage, eagerly looking forward to a real visit to the poetic realm, for their childhood, for their imagination, and for an inexpressible cultural belonging.

  Sometimes this longing is like searching for a lost hometown and visiting scattered relatives.

  The magic of literati can turn a remote corner of the world into everyone's hometown. What kind of sorcery is hidden in their thin green shirts?

  Today, I rushed to Wang Wei's "Weicheng Qu" and went to Yangguan. Before departure, I asked an old man in the county town where I was staying, and he replied: "The road is far away, and there's nothing good to see. This snow won't stop falling for a while, don't go and suffer." I bowed to him and turned into the snow.

  As soon as you leave the small county town, it's the desert. Except for a vast expanse of snow-white, there is nothing, not even a wrinkle to be found. When traveling elsewhere, one always sets a target for oneself at each stage, staring at a tree and rushing over, then staring at a rock and rushing over. Here, no matter how hard you look, you can't see a single target, not even a withered leaf or a black dot. So, all you can do is lift your head to gaze at the sky.

  Never have I seen such a complete sky, not a bit of it was swallowed or obscured, the edges were all stretched out and tightly wrapped around the earth.

  With such a land, the heaven is called heaven; with such a heaven, the earth is called earth. Walking alone in such a heaven and earth, even a dwarf becomes a giant; walking alone in such a heaven and earth, even a giant becomes a dwarf.

  The sky cleared up, the wind stopped, and the sunshine was great. Unexpectedly, the snow in the desert melted so quickly, just for a moment, the ground already showed patches of sand at the bottom, but no wet marks were seen.

  A few wisps of smoke-like clouds floated out from the horizon, motionless, yet deepening. After a moment of bewilderment, I realized that it was the mountain ridge that had just thawed from snow.

  There were some strange mounds on the ground, more and more of them, finally forming a shocking array. I guessed for a long time, then walked closer to squat down and examine carefully, and finally came to the conclusion: they were all ancient tombs.

  This place is far from the county town and will not become a burial ground for city people. These tombs have been eroded by wind and snow, collapsed due to age, dry and withered, obviously never having anyone sweep them. Why are there so many of them, arranged in such density? There can only be one understanding: this is an ancient battlefield.

  I wandered aimlessly in the boundless grave mounds, and T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land" emerged in my mind. This is indeed the wasteland of Chinese history: horse hooves like rain, shouts like thunder, hot blood pouring down. The white hair of the Mother of China, the distant gaze of a Jiangnan spring boudoir, the nighttime wails of Hunan children. Farewells under the willow shade of my hometown, the angry glare of a general's roar, the abandoned military flag after discarding armor. With one wave of smoke and dust, another wave of smoke and dust, all drifting away into the distance.

  I believe that the dead all faced north in their final moments; I believe they also wanted to turn back at the last moment and cast a glance at the familiar land. And so, they fell twistedly, turning into piles of sand.

  These star-like sand dunes, I wonder if they have exchanged for a few lines of ink from the historians? The accumulated Chinese historical books, written on this wilderness page, are still relatively glorious, because this is the remote border area of the dynasties, bearing the mission of defending the Huaxia territory. So, these sand dunes are still laid out relatively freely, and these pages can still rustle. Just like the monotonous land in front of us, the historical proposition that appears here is also relatively simple. It's different inside the Central Plains. There is no such vast and open honesty, everything is hidden in the flowers and grasses, countless unknown souls who died unjustly, can only deeply sink to the bottom with sorrow and indignation, making every piece of land suspicious and heavy. In comparison, this wilderness is still fortunate.

  In the distance, there were already tree shadows. Hurrying over, under the trees was a stream, and the sandy ground also had ups and downs. Climbing up a slope, I suddenly raised my head and saw that not far away on the mountain peak was an abandoned earth mound, which I instinctively believed to be Yangguan.

  More and more trees appear, and houses begin to emerge. This is correct, the important pass is here, the place where troops are stationed, and these cannot be missing. Turning a few corners and climbing up a sandy slope, I reach the bottom of an earth mound and search around, only to find a stele nearby with the four characters "Yangguan Ancient Site" inscribed on it.

  This is a commanding height overlooking the surroundings. The northwest wind sweeps across thousands of miles, rushing straight in, stumbling a few steps before finally standing still. Although my feet are steady, I can clearly hear the sound of my teeth chattering, and my nose must have turned bright red immediately. After exhaling a mouthful of hot air onto my palm, covering my ears and jumping up and down several times, I finally calm down and open my eyes.

  The snow here has not melted, of course it won't melt. The so-called ancient site, there is no trace left, only the beacon tower nearby is still there, which is the earth mound seen just now below. The earth mound has collapsed more than half, and you can see layers of mud and sand mixed with layers of reeds. The reeds are fluttering out, shaking in the cold wind after a thousand years.

  Looking ahead, the northwest mountains are all covered with snow, stretching straight to the sky. I suddenly feel like I'm standing on a reef by the sea, and those mountains are all frozen waves of an icy ocean.

  Wang Wei's brush is really warm and thick. For such a Yangguan, he still doesn't show a sharp and surprising expression, but only writes quietly and elegantly: "I advise you to have another cup of wine, west of Yangguan there are no old friends." He glanced at the green willow outside the window of the Wei City inn, looked at his friend's luggage that had been packed up, smiled and raised the wine pot - come on, one more cup, maybe after leaving Yangguan, it won't be easy to find old friends to drink and chat with like this.

  This cup of wine, a friend must drink it all at once without hesitation.

  This is the style of the Tang people. They mostly don't sigh and persuade each other to stay. Their gaze is far-reaching, their path in life is broad. Farewells are frequent, footsteps are carefree. This spirit is even more magnificent in Li Bai, Gao Shi, and Cen Shen. From this, it can be inferred that in the ancient sculptures of the North and South, Tang people's sculptures can be recognized at a glance, with such healthy bodies, calm eyes, definite smiles, and confident spirits.

  In Europe, when you see the smile of Mona Lisa, you can immediately feel that this kind of calm confidence belongs only to those artists who have truly awakened from the nightmare of the Middle Ages and are confident about their future path. These artists have struggled for many years, determined to convey the smile into the soul of history. The Tang Dynasty, which had possessed this smile even earlier, did not continue its confidence for long. The wind and snow at Yangguan Pass seem even more desolate.

  Wang Wei's poetry and painting are both unparalleled, the boundaries between poetry and painting that Western philosophers such as Lessing have repeatedly discussed are something he can enter and exit at will. However, the palaces of Chang'an only opened a small side door for artists, allowing them to enter with humility as cultural attendants. Here, there is no need for art to make too much of a humanistic scene, nor is there a need for profound humanistic aspirations towards beauty.

  Thus, the literary style of Jiuzhou gradually became rigid. Yangguan, it was no longer possible to enjoy warm and mellow poetry. The literati who went west from Yangguan became fewer and fewer, only Lu You and Xin Qiji and others reached there in their dreams, listening to the sound of horse hooves crossing deserts and rivers. However, a dream is after all a dream, they all died in their dreams.

  Even if it's a mound of earth or a stone city, it can't withstand the loneliness of not seeing a poet. Yangguan has collapsed, and its collapse is in the spiritual territory of a nation. It will eventually become ruins, and eventually become a wasteland. Behind, sand dunes like tides; before, cold peaks like waves. No one can imagine that here, over a thousand years ago, the magnificence of life's journey and the grandeur of artistic emotions were once verified.

  There should be a few sounds of the hu lu si and qiang di, like the powerful Han people's whistling, blending with nature, yet captivating one's soul. Unfortunately, they later stopped being lively and became mournful sounds in the hearts of soldiers. Since even a nation couldn't bear to hear them, they disappeared into the northern wind.

  Go back, it's getting late and might still snow.