The heartbeat of Chang'an in the morning bells and evening drums

The heartbeat of Chang'an in the morning bells and evening drums Standing at the foot of the Xi'an Bell Tower, the blue-gray bricks glow with a warm light in the morning light. This ancient building, which was first built in the 17th year of Hongwu in the Ming Dynasty, is like a piece of amber solidified in time, gently holding the soul of the ancient capital of thirteen dynasties in the palm of its hand. The wind chimes on the eaves swayed gently in the breeze, and the tinkling sound seemed to carry the rhythm of Chang'an, which has existed for thousands of years. Looking up, the three-tiered pointed roof looks like a blooming blue brick lotus, and the stacked brackets are like bones supporting the clouds of glazed tiles. The gilded top of the temple reflects fine golden light in the sun, like a punctuation mark left in the sky by the ancients, and every punctuation mark is a sigh of the changing of dynasties. Pushing open the wooden door, the fragrance of the original wood mixed with the dust of time hits you in the face. Four bright red pillars reach up to the top floor, as if supporting the backbone of the entire city. The colorfully painted caisson extends overhead, with cranes holding clouds and auspicious beasts stepping on the waves. Craftsmen use paint to construct the Penglai fairyland in this small space. Walking up the creaking wooden steps, each step feels like stepping on the keys of history, producing a low echo. Looking out from the railing, you can see the hustle and bustle of West Street and the green bricks and gray tiles of South Street meet here. The clock tower is like a button of time, gently sewing the past and the present into the same piece of brocade. When the morning mist has not yet dissipated, it is a silhouette of the prosperous Tang Dynasty described by Cen Shen as "the sound of bells and drums". When the lights come on, it turns into a neon background flowing in the lenses of modern people. A flock of pigeons flies over the eaves, and what falls off between the flapping of their wings are not feathers, but the gazes of countless passers-by over the past thousand years - the longings of scholars taking imperial examinations, the homesickness of soldiers guarding the border, the exhaustion of camel caravan merchants, and the amazement of today's tourists. As dusk falls, the lanterns on the eaves of the bell tower light up one after another. The warm yellow light spread over the moss in the cracks between the bricks, illuminating the plaques that read "A Place of Great Prosperity for Civil and Military Affairs" and "Voices Heard in Heaven". At this moment, the bell tower is no longer a static building, but a flowing time museum: the raindrops dripping from the eaves are the clepsydra of the Tang Dynasty, the weeds in the cracks of the bricks are the spring breeze of the Song Dynasty, and even the dust floating in the air carries the vicissitudes of the battlements of the Ming Dynasty city wall. When the last ray of sunset meets the neon lights of the city at the top of the pagoda, the ancient and the young complete the most gentle embrace at this moment. Looking back when leaving, the bell tower stood quietly in the night, like an old man who had seen thousands of sails, watching the hustle and bustle of life passing by with a smile. It is the heartbeat of Chang'an, the annual rings of history, and the lingering moonlight in the hearts of every passerby - no matter how far you go, as long as you think of the wind chimes on the eaves, you will know that there is a city with lights when you return. In the morning bells and evening drums, there is always a window reserved for you that can see through a thousand years.