Infinite Compassion

His face was full of the chisel-marks of years, his eyes flowed slowly without a ripple, his withered hands like his withered body — not quite gaunt, yet gauntness had no such extremity. The consciousness of survival had blurred his fate; in his clouded brain, full of confusion, was the haze. He walked forward slowly, like an insect crawling quietly. His left hand dragged a tree branch; his right hand carried a bamboo basket. The bamboo basket was very old; you could see the pale-yellow eggshells inside, still seemingly new, clustered together, all of them alive.

The dim yellow lamplight was pressed by the heavy night until it could hardly breathe, as if about to go out, struggling, twitching helplessly. He sat under the lamplight, shivering in the north wind, yet still hawking, staring at the stall in front of him. His purplish-red face showed no hint of age; his drooping eyelids could not hide the haste of youth.

Only he shouldn't be here; he belongs to the vast sky, but he was born without wings — the tragedy of a bird. Fate made only a small joke, but for him it was a catastrophe.

It started to snow, heavier and heavier, and a thin layer accumulated on the road. The old man with the basket stopped in front of a stall. A child selling apples smiled and approached, reciting various apple prices. The old man turned and walked away. The child looked at the sky, ready to pack up. A few primary-school students walked by, chasing, brawling, their noise scattering even the snowflakes. At that moment the old man slipped and fell not far away, and a whole basket of eggs smashed to pieces. The apple-selling child looked back with a grin, thinking: the road is so slippery, I have to be careful.

The students, on the other hand, helped the old man up and then scattered in a crowd.

Snow piled up all over the street; the daytime bustle had gone far away. With a gust of wind, what rose was all the night.