Snow falls on the Forbidden City, and heaven and earth write a blank sheet of paper for history.
The vermilion palace walls are covered with a blanket of white snow, transforming six hundred years of power struggles and sorrows into hazy memories.
On the glazed tiles of the Hall of Supreme Harmony, gold and white intertwine, as if time itself has been superimposed on the Ming and Qing dynasties.
The bronze lions, covered in snow, possess a touch of gentle warmth amidst their majesty; having withstood centuries of wind and frost, they remain as silent as ever.
In the Imperial Garden, withered branches are adorned with snow like jade flowers, and the artificial hills and corridors resemble pale ink paintings.
The concubines who once admired the snow are now dust, but the snow arrives as promised, falling precisely in the same places.
On the long streets in the snow, only the soft patter of falling snow can be heard—the most authentic sound of the palace—the red walls grow ever deeper, the yellow tiles ever more radiant.
As the sun sets, the Forbidden City appears like a dream in the twilight.
No wonder, the 605-year-old palace is itself a heavy snowfall, drifting through the long night of Chinese civilization.
And we, like the smallest speck of dust in the snow, are fortunate enough to witness its most silent and moving appearance.