青藤蔓蔓，在夏末的墙角悄悄结出些悬垂的念想。初时青碧如玉，可作羹可入画；待秋霜点过，便褪尽铅华，凝成一身枯淡的禅意。

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.

老去的葫芦最耐看。中空，却自有其圆满。农人剖之为瓢，舀起井水的清冽；隐者系之在杖头，装些松子与烟霞。那些束腰的，像是被岁月轻轻掐了一把，便有了上下两重天——上可盛月光，下可贮陈酿。

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，长出梅兰竹菊；手捻的，摩挲出琥珀光。最妙是雪夜听壶，中空里回荡着往事的回声。一瓠一世界，不争不抢，却把光阴都酿成了静默的诗。

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.

责编：玄贺彤