"It was a long time ago that the river found its bed..." This is an ancient and mysterious spell that rang out over Berlin in black and white film. You suddenly realized that the sound came from the Primordial Century, when Hongmeng first opened. You saw the wizard wearing black feathers dancing along the golden bonfire in the moonless night. His limbs were as thin as stick insects in disguise. The figure-like figure struggled in the firelight, like a drop of flowing resin covering the soul as small as an ant. The heartbeat from the chest muttered to itself, the tickling of the scattered pendulums began to resonate at the moment when they intersected with each other, and the magnificent but full of sadness bells gradually echoed in every corner of Berlin, from the iron The grey river swept past every rose garden corpse, whispering beside the scarred buttocks, and headed straight for the pale Berlin sky. You start to ignore the ancient legends made up by yourself, start to forget the tumult of life itself, and look up at the top of the resplendent church, above the height that pierces the sky, a lonely angel sits on the wings of God, pity Looking down at this black and white urban jungle made of reinforced concrete.
There will be some wind passing by the tops of the tall birch trees, you will hear some footsteps ringing in the empty towers, and the cloudy sky will occasionally open a sad eye, this time the angel is by your side . Berlin is a desolate cemetery, and black and white have become the only colors left in the eyes of angels. The exchange and price of being born with fate or being an angel is the punishment and curse given by God. Every angel is a ghost who can listen to the voices of passers-by. Walking on the gray streets of Berlin, his weightless body becomes a piece of weightless feathers. Eternal life is to blame and cumbersome wings, and the library that records time and history has become a volute for sojourn, beside the handrail, on the corridor, between the corridors, watching the fresh or old life pass by, they They have become moving statues, their marble-like faces are dignified and lifeless, their palms caress the warm faces, but their fingertips can't retain half the heat, and the fantasy of passing through the body is vanished in the air flow. An imprisoned soul, a life with all five senses lost.
The city of gold is in ruins. Hell is so dark that it needs fire. In the sky, Berlin began to tremble, night became day, Berlin walked into the wild forest, owls were crying, and the lonely old man roamed in the wilderness of Berlin's desolate smoke, and the birds flew in the evening sky. Some flying has to be done by humans, and the arrow of death is quietly inserted into the roof of the building. The youth who thinks of the sacred east, "A river or a lake can never be understood." Then fly over this huge tomb of the living dead, fly Through the glory and dreams in Berlin's white hair, flying through all this old age and desolation. Let the angel listening to his heart be engulfed by the unexpected sadness, and let his heart pound like the ice shattered in December. You are incapable of redemption in the end, just stand there, your arms are the dead branches of the late autumn, and the bones are deep and cold, and the leaves are pulled in the hollow. Mourning can't break this immortal life, then carve scars in your heart to record the annual rings of time, the angel's wings carry all the weight of the city, and the sky of Berlin ache because of it. And you are silent, you are just a bystander, even if you pass by countless times, you can't take away a speck of dust. You can't get warm, no hugs. The angel sitting on God's golden wings and the tramp sleeping on a bench are one in Berlin at night.
Fall from the sky, give up the wings of an angel, and become a man. You see the sky again, it is blue, the grass is green, like a baby's blood greedily licking its fingers, the salty taste is red. The world opened its arms to you again, you began to yearn for hugs, the bones creaked while the warmth was passing, and the river ran in another way. The Berlin Wall, you chose to take off the mantle of God in such a special place. The towering walls are covered with colorful and exaggerated figure paintings, Indians with purple crests, women with fat chins, and long, narrow heads like pencils. The men, they are the strange guardian angels of this city, and their faces are also full of sadness in the depths of the heart. The black and white Berlin starts to be colorful from here, the picture becomes crowded and noisy, the overwhelming colors are full of worldly joy, drink a cup of coffee and smoke a cigarette, this is the dream of an angel, let me slowly age and die quietly, there will be no more White wings, put the weight lightly, and say a word to every passerby. If you can't see his heart, just go and look at that face, and find your little shadow in the pupil, I really exist. "When a child is still a child, you always ask questions like: Why am I? Not you?"
Stop talking about love, this will not be Wim Wenders' original intention, start with fantasy and end with fantasy . Let the golden yellow become red, and continue to burn in the night of Berlin, all the angels will not cry at this moment, there is a kind of footsteps that will shake the sky, because he finally walks into another unfamiliar soul completely. The decision is you, or me, walking through the endless black and white forest, across the river that roars deep in my heart, 'Now, we are the time, the whole city, no, the whole world. "
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