Gambling House Turmoil

On frosty mornings and rainy nights, I sit alone on the balcony, brewing a cup of fragrant tea and holding an ancient scroll, quietly savoring the joys and sorrows, the partings and reunions within the pages.

I step into the colorful bamboo slips, gathering the footprints of the sages, opening the drifting pages to pluck the sincere tears of history.

Walking into that era filled with the smoke of gunpowder, I see you grow from a common worker's child into a steadfast proletarian warrior. Illness could not crush your resolve, and blindness could not torment your strength. You dedicated your most precious life to the most magnificent cause of humanity, becoming a monument that has influenced generations. With your strength, you wrote the most moving poem of mankind! Walking with the classics, I have learned to be strong.

Strolling through that quiet little mountain village, I see you grow from a troublesome child despised by all into a towering hero. In the pitch-black cave, facing the threats of a murderer, you were utterly fearless, ultimately resolutely providing precious evidence to the court. Hunger could not break your courage, and darkness could not swallow your bravery. You still fulfilled your duty as a man—bringing Becky out of the cave. With your bravery, you painted the most touching picture in the world! Walking with the classics, I have learned to be brave.

Wandering on that desolate, uninhabited island, I see you washed ashore by the waves, barely surviving the shipwreck. You lived on that lonely island for twenty-eight years. The harassment of savages did not make you lose your reason; instead, it made you even more resourceful. Longing could not destroy your perseverance, and loneliness could not frustrate your wit. Twenty-eight years later, you finally returned to the side of your loved ones. With your resourcefulness, you played the most astonishing movement in the world! Walking with the classics, I have learned to be resourceful.

In the words "the old steed in the stable still aspires to gallop a thousand miles," I feel the ambition of Cao Cao to unify China; in "the flowing water and falling flowers, spring has departed," I taste the helplessness of Li Yu regarding the ups and downs of life; in "I send my sorrowful heart to the bright moon, to follow the wind until it reaches the west of Yelang," I listen to the longing Li Bai feels for his friend.

What I am reluctant to part with is Lin Daiyu's "flowers fall, flowers fade, flowers fill the sky; when the red fades and the fragrance breaks, who will pity them?"; what I constantly dwell upon is Ma Zhiyuan's "the sun sets in the west, the broken-hearted person is at the end of the world"; what I find hard to forget is Xin Qiji's "suddenly looking back, that person is there in the dim, flickering light"; what I cannot let go of is Wang Wei's "in the deep forest, no one knows, only the bright moon comes to shine upon me."

I dream of trekking through the deserts beyond the Great Wall, admiring the beauty of "the long river and the setting sun are round" in the golden glow of twilight; I dream of strolling along the paths of my hometown, experiencing the sentiment that "the moon is brighter in my hometown" under the silver radiance of the full moon; I dream of trekking up Mount Tai in Qilu, grasping the heroic spirit of "viewing all the mountains as small" amidst the swirling clouds.

Those poems, whether sonorous or gentle, transform into currents of air, rushing toward the long river of history, stirring up distant, lingering echoes.

Just like this, the philosophical thoughts and wisdom contained within the classics continuously forge my immature mind, allowing me to grow strong and healthy.

Walking with the classics, I begin to ponder—pondering the meaning of life, the value of existence, and the eternity of the spirit! Every reflection strengthens my convictions, and every reflection tempers my soul.

Walking with the classics, I will become even stronger, braver, more resourceful, and more mature.

The purity and profoundness of the classics will not fade away with time; they will forever be an inexhaustible source nourishing the human soul.