Blade and Poetry

Francisco has a playboy background and a frivolous and lively personality. It is said that he has a preference for blonde girls with big breasts, and everyone nicknamed him "Little Flower and Bird".

But I probably won't be free to go out drinking and picking up girls with him tonight.

Karajan's office door was ajar, and I gently pressed my hand against the door.

Karajan sat on one side of the table, leaned against the back of the chair, closed his eyes tightly, and leaned his neck back slightly.The afterglow of the setting sun was shining into the window through the gaps in the branches and leaves of the old berry tree in the distance, and it happened that his profile—forehead, nasal bone, jaw, and Adam's apple—outlined a graceful golden outline.

Before I had time to knock on the door, Karajan opened his eyes keenly - he kicked his leather shoes lightly, turned the chair at an angle, and faced me: "Wait for me on the sofa over there. Thank you, remember to close the door .”

I sat on his couch and looked around bored.I haven't had a hobby of visiting the professor's office in the past year, so I don't know if Karajan's one is too unique.His desk is a wide wooden table.With the desk as the boundary, the right side is a more office-like arrangement. There is a huge bookcase against the wall, which is mostly filled with books, and the top layer is paper slips, because the position of the window has received sufficient light. ; the layout on the left is extremely dazzling.

The walls and the ground are magically paved with a dark galaxy. When the indoor light is still sufficient, you can still see restless little stars passing along their orbits, and it will probably appear even more starry at night.The black shelf against the wall is full of strange gadgets, such as a silver three-dimensional globe, an exquisite model of the Milky Way, a moon lantern that is said to store moonlight, a parchment navigation chart with curled edges, and so on.This side does not seem to be suitable for receiving guests, there is not even a chair - instead, thick paper like snowflakes is piled up on the side of the table like unopened letters, and Qinglingling is scattered on that side. On the side of the ground, it was like waves rolling in from the sea of ​​night.

I sat on the sofa that stretched across the sides, looking at Karajan, staring at his slender pale fingers holding the pen holder, wondering when he slid the chair in front of me.

"Mr. Vicente, I'm considering your suggestion about the end-of-class assignment, but a more definite reason will allow me to give you the answer." He wrote the last episode of the class in one stroke, and handed a piece of paper full of words to the On my hand, "What do you think of it?"

"Executioners/They don't care to cut off your head/Because it's too straightforward and dirty to make people despise..." I read in a low voice. "One of Goya's "Twelve Suite"."

"Yes."

"If I remember correctly, this is the Lost one."

He smiled, "Can you tell the difference? Goya's old volumes are all rare books, and the remaining few poems are also mixed together. Who made the old man not like to mark the titles in front of the poems, but just scribbled on the top of the page?" A table of contents. Many versions have been transcribed by later generations, and the order is chaotic, and most of them do not match the numbers."

"I read it in my grandfather's library when I was a kid, but I haven't reviewed it in a long time. Because I couldn't—"

Karajan skipped my abrupt pause.

"A great library, which can store Goya's posthumous works. I envy you for having such a grandfather and library."

I felt something soft, too, as his words gently and gently caressed my heart.

"Thank you. Too bad it's not widely known, many people don't know about it. It's almost forgotten."

He said meaningfully: "Yes, people always forget. The reason for forgetting may not be blamed on their own poor memory, but some things have never been put into their minds."

I looked at him suddenly, as if I wanted to find some deep meaning in his eyes.

"Read on, Vicente," he said.

I followed his advice and continued to look down:

"

……

Executioners

They don't bother to cut off your head

Because it's too blunt, dirty, and contemptible

they grind your claws

It's like cutting off your hands

They laugh at your bruised blood

Also known as Mu You Grinding Smooth Fracture

Because of the plain break

You can hold a cup under the lively lights

You can get close to the hot plump ketone body

You can do good and accept sincere souls

You can use your ingenuity to fill your treasure

They praised:

"What lovely hands - omnipotent"

Even though those hands might have been used to dig through the woods

a small pit

……

"

That's what's on the front of that paper.I gripped the edge of the paper tightly, and didn't turn it over for a long time.

Karajan doesn't rush me.I heard a low laugh from him.

"Are you angry?" he said.

I raised my eyes and looked at him—his eyes were clear in color, and it seemed that there was an undercurrent surging in them at this time, floating the blue that was so pale that it was almost invisible to the outermost layer.They looked at me deeply in the most polite and abrupt way, as if they were unfolding everything to me frankly, and they seemed to be able to spy on everything I had.

I smiled and avoided his question. "I thought it was fun."

"Then read on."

I turned the paper over and found nothing on it.

"Is this also a fragment?" I asked him.

"Yes. It's gone later. But according to some small investigations, I tend to think that Goya himself didn't finish writing it, and it wasn't lost by later generations." He raised the corner of his mouth, "After all, his characters are so small, the whole poem Definitely coming together on the same sheet."

"So," I asked hesitantly, "you don't think this is 'afterglow'?"

"I don't think so. He hasn't filled that container with what he wants to say. Or is he asking everyone for answers?"

He leans forward.A quill was placed firmly on my flat sheet of paper.

His voice was low and hoarse, very sweet: "Vicente, would you like to show me your answer?"

I frown, the nib of my pen resting on the page.Karajan was preparing something for me in that wondrous half of the room, tinkling slightly.Then he sat back down again.I feel his gaze resting on me.

I hadn't confessed my anger to him before, not trying to hide anything.There was just a fleeting feeling in my throat: If I nodded, I would appear to have failed utterly.Lost to Goya, just as he himself lost to what his lines mock, admitting that he was stumbling through life, and so was I, and everyone else.

I think that may be Goya's last poem.I think he must have been so angry and desperate when he wrote this poem that he had to praise it with a sarcasm.

My pen tip began to rustle across the paper.The texture of the paper is fine, allowing the black ink to run smoothly.

"

Their preaching never stops exhausting selfless generosity

into the loner's chest

Let them teach you to love with all your heart

You used to be ignorant and mediocre

your faith in the future

like the fervent belief of all

The Ninth Lamb that Failed to Escape

only in old age

Hanging hands of guilt

Touching the Shuo Shuo Butcher Knife for An Ning's death

The individual is born alone

the essence of guilt

……

"

When I wrote the third word "sin", I felt something struggling in my chest.It argues, denies, and suffocates, giving people the illusion of suffocation.

Not much more.I read the above article and suddenly found it extremely absurd and interesting, so I added a sentence:

"...

The executioners praised:

'Everything is what we want it to be, what the world wants it to be

Those are omnipotent hands. '

"

Karajan took the paper and looked at it quietly.His posture was still for a long time.

"Not good?" I asked him.Thinking of the sentence he asked me at the beginning, I couldn't help feeling a little funny, "Are you angry?"

He looked away from the paper and looked at me inquisitively, as if smiling: "No, it's good. I like it. I was going to say it's not your age, but it's not right for you to say that." Great fairness."

I nodded violently, expressing my disgust at what he said.He was amused to laugh, and a strand of golden-red hair fell from his temples, shining brightly against the soft light of the setting sun behind him.

He picked up the half of the poem and looked at it again.

He sighed, "Yeah, why do they have to be the same?"

When he said this, I knew he understood.