You hear it all along the river. You hear it, loud and strong, from the rowers as they urge the junk with its high stern, the mast lashed alongside, down the swift running stream. You hear it from the trackers, a more breathless chant, as they pull desperately against the current, half a dozen of them perhaps if they are taking up wupan, a couple of hundred if they are hauling a splendid junk, its square sail set, over a rapid.
On the junk, a man stands amidships beating a drum incessantly to guide their efforts, and they pull with all their strength, like men possessed, bent double; and sometimes in the extremity of their travail they craw on the ground, on all fours, like the beasts of the field. They strain, strain fiercely, against the pitiless might of the stream.
The leader goes up and down the line and when he sees one who is not putting all his will into the task he brings down his split bamboo on the naked back. Each one must do his utmost or the labour of all is vain. And still they sing a vehement, eager chant, the chant of the turbulent waters.
I do not know words can describe what there is in it of effort. It serves to express the straining heart, the breaking muscles, and at the same time the indomitable spirit of man which overcomes the pitiless force of nature. Though the rope may part and the great junk swing back, in the end the rapid will be passed; and at the close of the weary day there is the hearty meal...
But the most agonizing song is the song of the coolies who bring the great bales from the junk up the steep steps to the town wall. Up and down they go, endlessly, and endless as their toil rises their rhythmic cry. He, aw --ah, oh. They are barefoot and naked to the waist. The sweat pours down their faces and their song is a groan of pain.
It is a sigh of despair. It is heart-rending. It is hardly human. It is the cry of souls in infinite distress, only just musical, and that last note is the ultimate sob of humanity. Life is too hard, too cruel, and this is the final despairing protest. That is the song of the river.
总有一些人来到生命当中,一些人离开。不必要怀恨在心,保持理解吧。因为,不是每件事情都要被解释的透透彻彻。也因为女人来自金星,男人来自火星。 总有一些磨难似乎跟别人解释不了,唯有身边的那些人能够懂你。 总有一些情感,走过了,就不会再回来了。 总有一些人,常年喜欢搅局,不要解释,表示理解。 但是,不管怎么样,无论今天是富有还是明天是贫穷,要记得,人最宝贵的是精神,灵魂里的闪烁也是吸引人的关键。 磨难就想一杯美酒,苦难不适合总是拿出来和别人分享,因为,没有人想要听你的那些故事。就着夜深人静的时候,自己将它喝下去。明天早上起床的时候,请神采奕奕,精神饱满,因为,你的第一天无法复制。用实际行动,成为一个神的好仆人,将十字架变成荣耀的见证。用爱来还原应该有的真实世界。阳光照进来的时候,你有没有伸开五指,企图想要遮住强光透进的窗户呢?我们因为服侍神而活着,宽容,大气,同样不记人的恶。拥有宽广的心来面对悖逆。 There are always some people came to life among some people to leave. Unnecessary grudge, maintain understand it. Because not everything should be interpreted Toutou purely. But also because women are from Venus, men are from Mars. There are always suffering can not seem to explain to others, only those who are around you can understand. There are always emotional, gone, it will not come back. There are always some people, like perennial spoiler, do not explain that they understand. But, anyway, whether today or tomorrow is full of poverty, to remember that the most valuable is the spirit, the soul of the key flashes is appealing. Tribulations wanted a glass of wine, not for suffering always come up and share with others, because no one wants to hear your stories. On the dead of night, he would drink it. Tomorrow morning, get up, please voice, full of energy, because you can not copy the first day. Practical action, to become a good servant of God, and the glory of the cross into a witness. Love should have used to restore the real world. The sun shone, you have five fingers outstretched, attempting want to glare through the windows into it? Because we serve God and live, tolerance, the atmosphere, the same people do not remember evil. To face with a wide of heart rebellion.