My era, 1979!

Chapter 39 The foxtail grass on the hillside swayed and brought tears to my eyes.

The office of Harvest magazine is located in an old Western-style house in the Writers Association compound on Julu Road in Shanghai.

The beige walls were covered with ivy, and last year's withered leaves were still embedded in the cracks between the bricks.

The three-story, pointed-roof building features an eclectic style reminiscent of the Republican era. The arched porch is adorned with indistinct intertwined floral patterns, and the cast-iron railings of the second-floor bay window are stained with a bluish-green rust from the rain, creating a charming contrast with the half-dead asparagus fern on the windowsill.

Judging from its appearance alone, it lives up to the prestigious name of "Harvest".

Judging purely by literary merit, among literary journals, Harvest and People's Literature are in the same category, with countless others.

Even excluding People's Literature,
Harvest, along with October, Contemporary, Flower City, and Zhongshan, is known as one of the "Five Great Kings," and it consistently ranks first.

Yu Hua would give this a thumbs up.

Xu Chengjun looked at the small building, feeling a strange mix of emotions.

This feeling was very similar to his first visit to the Forbidden City in Beijing in 2008 in his previous life, but not entirely.

A pilgrimage? It doesn't seem like it.

To say it was a conquest? Not at all.

If I had to compare it, it's a bit like clutching your newly bought and long-awaited "Audi Double Diamond" four-wheel drive car when you were a kid.

I was both excited and apprehensive.
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The editorial office is located in a large south-facing room on the second floor. The office, which is over 20 square meters, is crammed with five desks.

There was no air conditioning in the room, and when Xu Chengjun came up, everyone was fanning themselves with palm-leaf fans while reviewing the manuscript.

He was led up by editor Kong Rou, who spoke softly and gently. After hearing his purpose, she didn't say much, but simply led him to sit down on the small sofa on the north side of the editorial department before turning back to continue working at her desk.

Kong Rou was born in 1922. In her early years, she was sent to Yunnan. After being rehabilitated, she returned to Shanghai and became an editor of the magazine "Harvest".

Historically, he edited Chen Rong's "Middle Age" and was awarded the title of National Outstanding Literary Editor.

They're top-tier in this industry!
The man in the gray-blue Zhongshan suit and black-rimmed glasses is Xiao Dai. His desk is piled high with manuscripts. He has been in charge of editing Harvest magazine since the 1950s and was a key figure when the magazine was relaunched.

Wu Xikang, sitting by the window with noticeable wrinkles around his eyes, was listening to the radio while translating.

Kong Rou brewed strong tea in an enamel mug and proofread the manuscript word by word.

The other two desks were empty, presumably belonging to Li Xiaolin and editor Wang Xiyan, who were out of town.

Xu Chengjun, who was sitting to the side, was not bored either. He observed the work of the editors who received the highest honor in this era for half an hour.

They also thoroughly satisfied their tourist cravings.

He then lowered his head and began to ponder the poem he was about to write.

The three poems I promised to Liu Zuci are still pending.

Poetry is unlike other serious literary works.

Poetry is an "outlet" for the emotions of the times. Sometimes, a sudden inspiration will pluck a short sentence from the brilliant galaxy, and then that short sentence will shine brightly in the long river of literature.

Like,

You may know the line "Pitiful bones lie by the Wuding River, still the dream of a maiden in her spring boudoir," but you may not know Chen Tao.
I know the saying, "Those near the water get the moonlight first, and flowers facing the sun bloom easily in spring," but I don't know Su Lin.
I know the poem, "Beyond the mountains, green hills rise; beyond the towers, more towers stand; when will the songs and dances of West Lake cease?", but I don't know Lin Sheng.
Emotion and inspiration are the soul of poetry.

Especially since Xu Chengjun had experienced the clash and turmoil between two worlds, he had accumulated too many complex emotions and thoughts in his heart.

And in his mind are countless poems and lyrics about the next forty years, broken down into various short sentences.

It's fair to say that he wouldn't dare call himself the best poet of this era.

But he was one of the most inspired chroniclers of his time.

On the train, he had already decided what he wanted to write for his second poem; now, all that was missing was...

I just wrote him down.

It was a short poem called "Foxtail Grass on the Hillside".

This is a cover song I remember Tan Weiwei singing on a variety show.
The foxtail grass on the hillside sways, and my tears fall / Are you doing well over there?

When I think of you occasionally, I call your name repeatedly, but sadly you can no longer hear me.

He couldn't remember the lyrics to the other songs anymore, but the intense emotions he felt while listening to them remained vivid in his memory. When he first transmigrated, Xu Chengjun's favorite time was to go to the small hill near Xujiatun in the evening after a day's farm work.

Perhaps it's to find some space that belongs only to oneself in an unfamiliar world.
Perhaps it was to find a more open space to come up with ideas for writing barn stories.

It could also be because of some emotions he dared not express, such as homesickness.
Every day, when the setting sun casts long shadows on the mountains, Xu Chengjun can drag his leaden legs up the slope.

The mud clinging to his trouser legs was blown away by the wind, making a soft, crunching sound on the grass, much like his panting breaths from not having rested for the past two weeks.

The wind on the slope was stronger than in the fields, whipping the foxtail grass toward the cliff edge.

The fluffy tassels were blown into a bow, then straightened up again with the wind. The white fluff stuck to his sweaty collar, itching like the thread that his mother had accidentally pricked his fingertip when she was sewing his pants as a child.

He sat down on a blue stone, and the soreness in his lower back climbed up his spine.

While harvesting wheat in the morning, my palms, raw from the sickle handle, were still bleeding. Drops of blood fell onto the grass blades and, when the wind blew, became entangled with the white fluff of foxtail grass.

The distant barn shrank into a dark lump in the twilight, just like the one he had seen lying on the wooden bed when he first arrived.

Back then, he always felt that the winds of 1979 must have been carrying golden dust, and that a single gust could make life grow wings—

But now I realize that what the wind carried were wheat awns, dust, and scraps of his discarded manuscript paper, swirling on the grassy slope and tangling with foxtail grass.

There was a foxtail grass that grew taller than the others, its spikes almost touching the ground, yet its roots clung tightly to the cracks in the rocks.

Xu Chengjun reached out to touch it, and just as his fingertips touched the soft fur, a sudden gust of wind blew, and the tassels snapped against the back of his hand.

Like a soft sigh.

It's unclear what emotion made him feel as if he had sunk into the deep sea.

So, at the editorial office of Harvest magazine.

A short poem was quietly written down.

Foxtail Grass on the Hillside

Author: Xu Chengjun

When the wind blows, they lower their heads.
It's not about surrendering, it's about letting the sunlight shine.

Don't put it in the furry pocket.
Last year's snow hasn't gone far.
The tips of the grass broke through the frozen soil

Spread the shadows into a slope so that the ants can...

Practice mountain climbing in spring
/
When the butterfly landed on the third leaf

The entire hillside softened.

Fleeting moments of time are hidden in the downy fur.

Rocking and rocking, rocking like a mother calling her child home.

On the way home from school, we
An itch in the palm of your hand
/
It doesn't need to flower or bear fruit.

They stand in the gaps of time.
Roots into the silent earth
The foxtail grass from last year has withered.

This year, it's from the same place again.

Green sprouts, like those
Unspoken longing

Swaying gently in the wind
/
When the setting sun dyed them into golden gauze
Even time slowed down.
All the unspoken tenderness
They all grew into fluffy periods.

On every hillside, at every dusk
Waiting for someone willing to bend down

Understanding the patterns on the tips of grass
After a long while, Xu Chengjun finally broke free from his emotions, only to feel as if someone was standing next to him.

She was a woman in her early thirties with short, ear-length hair, wearing navy blue overalls, and exuding a capable air about her.

"You must be Teacher Xu? I'm Li Xiaolin."

She asked, "I saw you were writing poetry earlier, but I didn't dare to speak for fear of disturbing you. If you don't mind, could I take a look at this poem?"

(End of this chapter)