青藤蔓蔓，在夏末的墻角悄悄結出些懸垂的念想。初時青碧如玉，可作羹可入畫；待秋霜點過，便褪盡鉛華，凝成一身枯淡的禪意。

In the late summer shade, green vines curl quietly at the wall’s edge, sprouting hanging thoughts. At first, the gourds are jade-like—edible, paint able. But touched by autumn frost, they fade into a quiet, zen-like stillness.

老去的葫蘆最耐看。中空，卻自有其圓滿。農人剖之為瓢，舀起井水的清冽；隱者系之在杖頭，裝些松子與煙霞。那些束腰的，像是被歲月輕輕掐了一把，便有了上下兩重天——上可盛月光，下可貯陳釀。

Old gourds are the most beautiful—hollow, yet whole. Farmers carve them into dippers, hermits hang them from staffs, holding pine nuts or mountain mist. The pinched ones seem shaped by time itself—above, they catch moonlight; below, they keep old wine.

文人最懂它的好。范制的，長出梅蘭竹菊；手捻的，摩挲出琥珀光。最妙是雪夜聽壺，中空里回蕩著往事的回聲。一瓠一世界，不爭不搶，卻把光陰都釀成了靜默的詩。

Scholars love them most. Carved with plum and bamboo, polished to a soft amber glow. On snowy nights, one can hear the past echo inside. A single gourd holds a whole world—still, quiet, and full of time’s poetry.

責編：玄賀彤