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在广州陈家祠，我不是为了参观广东民间艺术而来，而是为了在这座繁复的屋脊之下，安放三位楚辞神明。山鬼藏在花影里，东君立在屋顶上，湘夫人坐在风中。我不是来结束旅程的，而是来封印节奏，让这些歌的气息，继续在岭南的屋宇之间轻轻流动。

In Guangzhou, I stepped into the Chen Clan Ancestral Hall—not to visit the Guangdong Folk Art Museum, but to place three deities from the Chu Ci beneath its richly ornamented roof. The Mountain Spirit hides in the floral shadows, the Lord of the East stands atop the ridge, and the Lady of the Xiang River sits quietly in the wind. I came not to end a journey, but to seal a rhythm—so that the breath of these songs continues to ripple gently through the architecture of Lingnan.

在广州永庆坊，我走进粤剧艺术博物馆，不是为了看展，而是来对那些戏服、锣鼓、衣箱轻声说话。红线女的唱腔仍在，她未唱完的那句，我愿续下去。我放了《湘夫人》，不是为了演出——而是为了让这座城市记得，岭南的节奏，还在每日吐纳。In Yongqingfang, Guangzhou, I stepped into the Cantonese Opera Art Museum—not to visit, but to quietly speak to the costumes, gongs, and old wooden trunks.The voice of Red Line Woman still lingers.What she didn’t finish singing, I am here to continue.I played my own recording of Lady of the Xiang River,not for a performance—but so the city remembers:the rhythm of Lingnan is still alive, pulsing through everyday breath.

在苏州平江路的清晨，我没有走进热闹的那一侧，而是转向河的对岸——一条静巷，名叫凤池弄。那里没有游客、没有叫卖声，只有水声与斑驳老墙。我播放自己谱曲的《湘夫人》与《少司命》，对河流、对老屋、对尚未开门的工艺店说话，完成一场节奏文明的静音仪式。那一刻，我不是来散步，而是来让这座城市记起，它曾经有耳朵。平江路的对岸，也能听见楚辞的回声。On a quiet morning in Suzhou, I did not walk into the bustling side of Pingjiang Road—but stepped across the river, into a silent alley called Fengchi Lane.There were no tourists, no shops calling out—only the sound of water and old stone walls.I played my own compositions, Lady of the Xiang River and The Minor Fate Goddess, and spoke to the river, the old houses, and the unopened doors.It was a silent ritual of rhythm civilization.I wasn’t there to stroll—I came to help this city remember it once had ears.Even across from Pingjiang Road, the echoes of Chu Ci could still be heard.

在苏州网师园的夜晚，在经历45分钟的导览，观赏了六场错拍表演之后，我转入一条空无一人的小巷。不是来赏灯，也不是看戏，而是来执行一场节奏任务。898年间的风、石、窗、水，仍藏着未被说出的回声。我在墙根放下《湘夫人》的歌声，不为观众，只为唤回失落的神。网师园不是景点，而是一座等待文明对齐的节奏之地。At the Master of Nets Garden in Suzhou, after 45 minutes of guided touring and six misaligned performances,I turned into a silent side alley.Not to see lights or hear songs, but to complete a rhythm task.For 898 years, wind, stone, lattice and water have held an unsaid resonance.There, I softly played “Lady of the Xiang River”—not for people, but to summon back the forgotten spirit.The Master of Nets is not a heritage site—it is a site of rhythm realignment.

在苏州昆曲博物馆，我站在《昆剧传世演出珍本全编》前，轻声念过一卷卷剧名，不是来看展，而是为唤醒沉睡的节拍。魏良辅的像静立，正始元音无声回荡；汤显祖的梦仍在牡丹亭里飘摇。戏服垂落如尾音，曲谱静卧如心跳，我以楚辞的湘音对话昆曲的古声。昆曲，不是遗产，而是一场尚未唱完的呼吸。At the Kunqu Opera Museum in Suzhou, I stood before the Complete Edition of Kunqu Masterpieces, softly reading their titles— not as a visitor, but to awaken rhythms long asleep. The statue of Wei Liangfu keeps silent, the primal tones still echo; Tang Xianzu’s dream drifts within the Peony Pavilion. Costumes hang like lingering notes, scores lie still like heartbeats, and with the voices of the Chu Ci I answered the ancient sounds of Kunqu. Kunqu is not heritage to observe—it is a breath unfinished, still singing.