轻柔的一瓢水自青藏之隅孕育而生，在高原的冰川汇聚，待有一天冲破险阻，奔腾而下，曲折绵亘，成为名震天下的江河。那么去远游吧，少年旅人。离家时心怀对远方对未知一切美好的希冀，踏上了穿越绿树丛荫、花香果香的山脉与盆地之路——葡萄镇与密支那，这里交通不便，与世隔绝。此刻少年尚未经世事，似乎觉得这伊甸园般的景致就是全部。渐缓的峡谷和愈稀的林木伴他前进，两岸时而出现狭小的平地，在这再平凡不过的平地成为身侧唯一的朋友之时，他的余光扫过了她，他看向了她，他看见了她，他的心给了她，给了一位优雅的少女，一位娇羞地在河畔洗濯隆基的少女，在此千年了，却容颜不衰。据说她曾是最受宠幸的王后，国之民皆以其为尊。可惜命运多舛，在无情的外敌侵略下，国土沦丧，御座崩塌，少女来到这水边静静守望。而昔时最忠诚的侍卫也未逃散，邻近的的山峦之上依稀可见他坚挺的身影，属于一具被敌人刻下印记的躯体的身影，却仍如此富有生命力。少女芳名曼德勒，而那侍卫名叫眉谬。时光流转，映着子民的幸福与苦厄，曼德勒的泪水化作江水，与少年的躯体交织在一起，予其飞速成长，少年现在是一条名副其实的大江了。干旱，炙热，荒凉，岸边是红褐色的大平原，人烟稀少，前路未卜，崇高的幻想乡又在何方？心神将竭，残酷与焦灼的真实正在耗尽少年的动力。身形随之改变，枯水遗留的岛洲遍布少年的主脉，他如行尸走肉般在这荒原中挣扎。忽然不远处一道强光闪过，那是佛，是真谛，在晨昏雾霭之中隐隐现出万千宝塔。先人在此安居繁衍，谨记佛语的智慧，不与世争，只为心做。世间物事千变万化，不可为我辈所左右，唯一能掌控的，是自己的心念。内心至定至善，何惧火海地狱，哪怕万劫突临。少年多了一份坚定，却少了一份执着，活在当下，以自己存在并奔流的每时每刻为乐。又是一次成长，少年会永远记得这位年长智者的名字——蒲甘。怀揣这份体悟，少年继而向南不息地前行，天气愈加炎热了，但村落与田野的回归使他舒畅无比。他终于意识到，是自己带来了这一切，是自己在不知不觉中滋润了大地。就快到了，一片无垠的水域，那将是自己的归宿所在吗？很难不伤感啊，少年慢下脚步，感受着与人们的和谐共生，希望少些遗憾。人类的聚落不断发展，其中亦有一个青年才俊拔得统摄之威，正襟危坐于少年的身边。金色的圣塔高耸，码头的轰鸣贯耳，当这片土地传统的一面遇到年轻的一面，便是这才俊的魂。珠宝，香料，木雕，漆器和形形色色的人们，所有能想到的丰富和色彩皆浓缩汇集于此，琳琅满目，惹人倾心。物质像山一样堆在眼前，却又给予你自由采拾，这大概就是所谓繁荣吧。少年直至最后一刻也没能触碰到这个才俊。旅程终有完结的一天，在身躯消殒作无数条细密的分流之时，少年残存的意识不停地呼唤着“仰光！仰光！”，这是才俊之城的名字。少年这样奔跑着，就像他更年少时兴奋地从家门跑出来一样，直至归于大海。人们在少年所经之处日复一日的生活着，在三角洲上，在平原上，在山谷间，他们有的富裕，但大多是穷苦的；他们的日子有的精彩，但大多是平淡的。无论是来自曼德勒的骑着旧摩托的高知牙医，还是在蒲甘憨厚爱笑的马车夫，亦或是仰光昂山市场内努力招揽顾客的商贩，他们皆是少年所爱的人。

少年名叫伊洛瓦底，少年的世界叫做缅甸，少年所爱的人叫做缅甸人。

北陲，东境，西海，仿佛能听见震耳的炮火声。少年徘徊的灵魂化作急流的江水，用最后一丝力量平息嗔恨，为这个千年古国祈祷着。

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A Boy and Myanmar

A gentle scoop of water was born at the edge of the Tibet Plateau, gathering in the glaciers of the highlands, waiting for the day when it would break through all obstacles, rushing down, winding and sprawling, becoming a river known throughout the world. So go and start your journey, young traveller. When leaving home, with a heart full of hope for the unknown, he embarked on a path through mountains and valleys, surrounded by lush trees and shady groves, with the fragrance of flowers and fruits—toward Putao and Myitkyina, places that are difficult to reach and isolated from the world. At this moment, the young traveller, still unversed in the ways of the world, seemed to believe that this Eden-like scene was everything. The gradually widening canyon and the thinning forests accompanied his progress, with narrow plains occasionally appearing on either side. In these seemingly ordinary plains, where the only companion was himself, his gaze swept over her. He looked at her, saw her, and his heart was hers—he gave it to an elegant young girl, a shy maiden washing her longyi by the river. She had been a queen in the past, favoured and revered by all the people of her land. But fate was cruel, and under the invasion of ruthless foreign enemies, her kingdom fell, and the throne collapsed. The maiden came to this riverside, quietly keeping watch. Even her most loyal guard remained nearby, his figure faintly visible atop the neighbouring mountains, a silhouette of a body marked by enemies, yet still brimming with vitality. The maiden’s name was Mandalay, and the guard was called Maymyo. Time flows, reflecting the joys and hardships of the people. Mandalay’s tears turned into the river’s waters, intertwining with the boy’s body, fueling his rapid growth. The boy had now become a mighty river. The land was dry, scorching, and desolate, with vast plains of reddish-brown earth, sparse with people, and an uncertain future ahead. Where was the utopia? His spirit began to wane, as the harsh and burning reality drained his strength. His form changed as he struggled through the barren land, the islands and sandbars left by receding waters scattered along his main course. He moved like a ghost, wandering in the wasteland. Suddenly, a bright flash of light swept across in the distance—it was Buddha, the truth, faintly visible amidst the morning and evening mist, the thousands of pagodas shimmering. The ancestors had once lived here, flourishing and passing down the wisdom of the Buddha’s teachings, to live without contention and simply for the heart. All things in the world change endlessly, beyond our control; the only thing we can govern is our own innermost beings. With a mind at peace, at ease with goodness, what fear of the fire or hell, even if a thousand calamities should come? The boy gained a new sense of resolve, but lost some of his attachment, learning to live in the present and to find joy in every moment of his existence and flow. Another moment of growth, and the boy would always remember the name of this wise elder—Bagan. With this realization, the boy continued his journey south, moving relentlessly forward, the heat growing stronger, but the return of villages and fields bringing him immense relief. He finally understood—it was he who had brought all this, unknowingly nourishing the land. Soon, he will arrive at a vast body of water, the place he might call his destination. It was hard not to feel sadness. The boy slowed his pace, feeling the harmony of coexistence with the people, hoping for fewer regrets. Human settlements continued to develop, and in one of them, a young talent rose to prominence, sitting upright beside the boy. The golden spires of Shwedagon soared into the sky, and the roar of the dock echoed. When the youthful side of this land met its traditional counterpart, it embodied the soul of this young man. Jewelry, spices, wood carvings, lacquerware, and a myriad of people—everything imaginable was concentrated here, dazzling and captivating. Material wealth piled up before his eyes, yet allowed him the freedom to take what he wished. This, perhaps, was what prosperity meant. The boy, until his last moment, never reached this young man. The journey, like all journeys, would eventually come to an end. As his body broke apart into countless fine tributaries, the boy’s remaining consciousness kept calling out, “Yangon! Yangon!”—the name of the city of his beloved young. The boy sprinted toward it, just as he once flew away vigorously from his mother as a younger child until he merged with the sea, peacefully. People live day after day along the paths he travelled, on the delta, in the plains, in the valleys—some are wealthy, but most live in poverty. Some have exciting lives, but most are mundane. Whether it was the dentist from Mandalay who rode a vintage motorcycle, the kind and cheerful carriage driver from Bagan, or the vendors in BoGyoke Market hustling to attract customers, they were all the ones the boy loved deeply.

The boy’s name is Irrawaddy, his world is Myanmar and the people he loves are called Burmese.

In the far north, the east, and the west, one could almost hear the deafening sound of guns and bombs. The soul of the young wanderer transformed into the roaring river, using its last thread of strength to calm the wrath, praying for this thousand-year-old ancient soil.