The Spring Breeze of April Yongqing Fang

The night breeze in early April carries the cotton-like kapok, gently brushing over the gray bricks and black tiles of Yongqing Fang. Lanterns light up one after another under the eaves, casting mottled shadows of the arcade buildings on the cobblestone streets, like time has created a gentle ripple. Under Moon Bridge, the spring water ripples slightly. The arch of the bridge and its reflection embrace to form a full moon. Some people hold bamboo fans to half-cover their faces, while others carry fish lanterns to chase the flowing light. The sounds of camera shutters rise and fall, but cannot cover the melodious singing from the Cantonese Opera Museum. With a flick of the actress's water sleeves, she embraces the thousand-year-old misty rain of Xiguan. Handsome men and beautiful women walk past them with coffee in hand, the latte art on the rim of the cups shaking into a nebula. In the windows of the intangible cultural heritage block, the sound of coppersmiths intertwines with electronic music, and the old times and new trends reconcile here. The most beautiful fireworks are nothing more than a lamp after the rebirth of a dilapidated building, the sweet aftertaste of a sour olive, and the lens of a foreigner meeting an ancient stage. Yongqing Fang does not speak, but turns life into a poem - half dipped in ink, full of vicissitudes; half dipped in sugar, sweetening the ordinary.