For most of my life, I have dwelt within Hidden Mountain. Over time, the voices of woods and ravines, of all t…
For most of my life, I have dwelt within Hidden Mountain. Over time, the voices of woods and ravines, of all things sounding together, have slowly become familiar to my heart.
I still remember my first entry through the mountain gate. Standing at the Mountain Verge, I heard the sound of grasses and trees putting forth new shoots, so faint and delicate that it seemed like music from Heaven itself. To this day it still lingers in my heart. That first stirring in the heart was what later led me to found the Harmony Troupe.
Though I later served at Deepwave Works, the pure notes of those companions who once sought harmony with me, and the ringing force of the debates at Confluence Gazebo, have never for a single day fallen silent in memory.
Yet as the years passed and all things changed, each went his own way, and meetings and partings alike became hard to foretell.
Still, as the seasons turn and sound and scene follow one another, a thought has taken root. Why not fashion a device that preserves sound?
If wisdom shares one law with wood and stone, then man and mechanism may dwell in accord as well.
The Mohists do not prize music, yet neither do we reject the five tones. We take the people's livelihood as our root, and the arts as secondary.
Now I wish to set the thought of the Mohist Dao to the rhythms of the natural world, and by means of this sound-preserving device, record once more the everyday soundscape of Mohist Hill.
Perhaps it may preserve the beauty of the present hour, and also leave to those who come after an unanswered question that has long remained in my heart.
That question is this: what sound does the Mohist Dao make?
If I may hear it but once in this lifetime, that will be enough.
And yet the Mohist Voice is abundant as rivers and seas, while my own life is faint and slight as the trace of grass.
In but a moment, my hair has turned white. One by one, all sounds grow still. Only the little cat in my study gives the occasional soft cry, keeping me company in these fading years.
Among those who study after me, many now dispute the roads of opening the mountain and sealing the mountain. I fear the harmony of many voices once heard upon Seven-Hued Plain may never again be found.
If someone should come after me, willing to take up this casket and continue the search for the Mohist Voice, then my heart... would be greatly comforted.