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Written on December 30th
This is the first snowfall in Shanghai. I left the door ajar and let the chilling wind refresh my head. Unlike the storm which leaves nothing but a trail of destruction in its wake, the snow at least the snow in Shanghai is as sweet as a lullaby in its virginal serene. Now the sky is clear and blue, the sunshine is like an old friend coming back again, everything is crystal clear, including sadness. I saw an old lady sitting alone under the decapitated trees, suffering from the ordeal of bereavement. I don't want to guess who she had lost, perhaps it is this kind of cruel separation that reminds us how much we love them. Suddenly my mind flashed back to my pen-friend, we had been exchanging snail mails for more than one year, continuously. It took about one week for my mail to reach Riga, the capital of Latvia, where my pen-friend lived. It worths being lamented that this friendship was called a halt due to some intricated reasons which I take no delight to explain. But it is needless to say that life is less humdrum when you have someone special to write to, to talk to, which is like a treasure buried in your heart, never to be vanished. The farmland of morning is verdant vividly, but in the silence of night, all is just like swaying shadow. I don't know what stories is the old Daugava River talking about; I don't know what secrets are hidden under the snow-covered land; I don't know whose sculpture the chilling wind is carving and I don't know why the aspen trees look so sorrowful. Some say :" Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves." But what is the colour of the life of ordinary people like us? ... Well, just look at the deep blue Baltic Sea, it has surpassed life and death, rested in profoundity.
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