Namco's soul

They set off very early the next day, and the morning wind was dry and refreshing, blowing over the reddish faces of the two of them.

Gongbula tugged at his left lapel, the young man's robes that were standing before he arrived were relatively gathered.

"Good day, Lord Gombola."

There will be one or two older herdsmen greeting him, and Kampot often nods cautiously.

This made Zhao Zihao even more surprised, what kind of tolerance is needed to accept the respect of an elder calmly.

His steps were slow and firm, and every step seemed to carry the solemnity of a pilgrimage.Sometimes he would look in the direction of the setting sun, his slightly long hair fluttering his eyelashes.His eyes are a mixture of youthful innocence and Tibetan profundity, flashing past.

Zhao Zihao looked at his sideways silhouette, the light of the setting sun and the black shadow intertwined under his feet, and his heart followed, the ancient well was silent, as if a strange soul was whispering.

"That's the holy lake." The young man's voice was a relatively low magnetic tone, but there seemed to be a special emotion when he pronounced the word holy lake.Let Zhao Zihao's heart move.

Kampot approached the direction of the holy lake, knelt down on the shore, clasped his hands and nodded, and moved a little closer to the ground—a posture of pilgrimage.

Zhao Zihao stood aside with several workers, and the irritability in his heart due to the long journey was also swept away.

The youth in Zhao Zihao's eyes gradually turned into a picture scroll, a poetic flavor of the nation.

After a long time, Gonpo took out a short white flute with a red tassel on the tail. He gently pressed the flute to his lower lip, followed by a melodious flute sound, different from that of Zhao Xi. The sound of the flute that Hao once heard was clear and distant, like the wind on the prairie.

After Gongbo finished playing an udamu, he habitually touched the fringe of the flute.

"You play very well. This is the bone flute, what's the name of this piece?"

A voice from behind pulled him out of his thoughts.

Gonpo glanced at the smiling face of the man, turned his head and said, "This song is called Udam, and it was taught to me by my father."

"Then your father must be very talented."

A faint smile appeared on Gonpo's face.

"Then where are they now, aren't they with you?"

Gonpo touched the bone flute, closed his eyes as if he was feeling the evening wind, and said softly

"They rest in the arms of the holy lake."

The author has something to say: This is a short story, a short film.