Reeds always grow by the river. No one sows them, and no one tends them. They are green in spring and gray in …
Reeds always grow by the river.
No one sows them, and no one tends them. They are green in spring and gray in autumn.
When the wind blows, the entire field rustles, bowing together in one direction.
Those who live by the river know that reeds can be made into many things.
They cover roofs to keep out the wind and rain; they pad grain carts to soften the jolts; they are woven into mats for warmth. Even a hollow reed can be used to whistle a tuneless song...
Many years later, someone might stand by the river and point:
They say the general fought a great battle here.
And they say a certain hero cut down the enemy here.
But few will ask: what did the reeds by the river do?
Perhaps they were stuffed into grain carts bound for the front lines, serving as a layer of padding, soaked through with blood and rain.
Perhaps they were tossed into a battlefield fire, crackling as they burned, just so a few frozen fingers could grip a blade once more.
Or perhaps they did nothing at all, simply standing on the bank, watching in silence, stubbornly refusing to let the wind bow their heads.
Later, a few more reeds were cut down.
They were thinned, dried, and shaped into arms and backs, then painted and tied with fine string.
The stage lights up, the white screen glows, and the scholars, beauties, emperors, and generals take their turns on stage.
But the shadow of the reed stands in a corner where no one notices, silent.
A child below the stage looks up and asks:
Who is that shadow?
That? The nameless one.
The child thinks for a moment, points at the shadow, and says:
Perfect, that's me! Give it my name.
The lamplight flickers, and the shadow nods.