The country life I long for is right where the dream began

Hometown

 Golden Call

Jamyang Dolma 

00:00/

When we grow old, let's go back to the countryside

This most simple and honest village is my starting point

I, who drift unsteadily amid the noisy and bustling tide of the city, can return to the countryside and cry aloud in the vast open fields, my body filled to the brim with bitter, unbearable tears. Coming back here brings back the honest faces and the most simple hopes for the future.

The same courtyard

The same low wall

The same millstone and stone bench

The same warm times in the old house

Seeing all this, it is as if I see again the solid, diligent, kind and true self. Here, there is no struggling to hold on in the cramped big city; here, there is no need to take the truly difficult steps one takes in the city: carefully guarding one's dignity, surviving cautiously, enduring in silence.

In the early morning there is no need to feel dizzy and disoriented

Walking along the small path through the countryside

The wind blows past, carrying the scent of soil

As if, as a child, I led the ox along this path

My bare feet still carried a faint fragrance of grass

Such a comfortable scene has no bond with the city, no relation to the times, no connection to prosperity, and is cut off from the clamor; it has always been the most moving string tugging at the depths of my soul. An old tree, a channel of gently flowing stream water, a cluster of full rice ears, or a clump of moist soil - these unadorned natural scenes will never tire the eyes, and can also cleanse the soul.

When dusk rises all around

Standing on the high hill

Looking at the cooking smoke rising everywhere,

It is as if I smell

The aroma of the rice my mother once cooked

After the rain, walk the slippery field ridges, gather a wisp of mist, scoop a ladle of stream water, sing a little tune, perfectly content! Cold Mountain turns dark green, autumn waters flow on day by day.

At night, there are no more flickering neon lights

The croaking of frogs piece by piece and the occasional barking of dogs

Can carry me into sweet dreams

The sounds of birds singing and frogs croaking that drift over; the fresh scent of soil wafting out; wave after wave of fruit fragrance - these are all my vision of life, the pure land where I settle my soul.

In spring,

Plant the fields and transplant rice seedlings together with the villagers

Cook a few dishes,

Set down the toil and weariness of the day

Everyone talks freely about the beautiful hopes for the year

Imagining the boundless hope of a year's harvest

On clear summer nights, enjoy the cool outdoors

The night sky is deep, the stars are brilliant

Sitting on the cool bed, chatting about everyday matters with family

Eating what was picked from the field ridges

Mugwort rice cakes made from fresh mugwort leaves

Waving a palm-leaf fan while chatting

That is a contentment that can never be enjoyed in a study

In autumn, osmanthus fragrance drifts

Sitting by the threshing floor, leisurely, at ease

Watching the young women and young wives of the village

Use winnowing baskets to put heaps of grain into hemp sacks

Then place them in the center of the threshing ground

In winter, the cold wind whistles

On rainy days, under the eaves,

The rain drips tick-tock

At that time, we must sit around the fire pit,

Cook a small pot of cured meat

With pickled sour radish,

Take a sip of homemade rice wine

How satisfying that would be,

How delightful

And also, here, there is a kind of sound that drifts into the ear - it is birds chirping sweetly on the branches, singing of their joyful mood;

The gurgling stream in the mountain ravine flows joyfully into the distance, so persistent, so unhesitating, as if going to realize a long-brewed dream;

Wildflowers bloom freely in the mountains, their fragrance clinging to the breeze, calling bees and luring butterflies, sparing no effort to show off countless charms; the mountain ridges stretch on and on, finally extending into a dark black, turning into a giant dragon, galloping into the distance, gradually disappearing from sight.

The small courtyard is a fence made of bamboo strips, covered with green vines.

There are long beans and cucumbers, and on the other side schisandra, lush and flourishing.

Occasionally a cluster of chrysanthemums peeks out from the bamboo fence; the bamboo fence, in the hazy moonlight, holds a poetic mood, veiling people's dreams and performing a intoxicating delight.

The sound of water in the distance seems to wander in the heart, spinning away irritability, washing away the summer heat, leaving the heart full of cool contentment.

Yes, it is right here, the poetic countryside that haunts my dreams - in the countryside, the place where my dream began.

When we grow old, let's go back to the countryside

After so many years of walking,

In the end we still have to return to this place

A place called hometown

A cup of light wine, a pot of chrysanthemum tea.

Invite the bright moon, admire wildflowers, sip sweet dew, taste fragrant melon.

A small boat, a straw cape,

In the slanting wind and fine rain, ferry through a life as carefree as idle clouds and wild cranes!

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