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伏龙芝故居感想
伏龙芝，是吉尔吉斯斯坦首都比什凯克以前的名称。
这个名字，曾经像一把烈火，照亮过我少年时代崇敬革命的心灵；曾经像一面旗帜，飘扬在我青年时代充满理想的胸中。在“十月革命”时期的那一代苏联革命领袖中，伏龙芝，这位唯一出生在边远中亚地区的革命者，曾有过那么多的传奇、那么多不凡的经历，以至于那些传奇至今仍让我们激动不已。
今天，当我置身于曾以他的名字命名的这座大森林般的城市的怀抱中，特别是来到他的故居，寻访他电闪雷鸣般的人生经历。新奇、敬仰、遗憾和失落——复杂的心情通过复杂的眼神，让我进行和经历着这次迟来的参观与访问。
他的砖木结构的陈旧而又矮小的故居，已被高大的花岗岩贴面的富丽建筑包裹着；他的巨幅画像迎面挂在纪念馆的正厅，他从事革命生涯的许多实物展示在精致的玻璃柜里。但是，来这里的参观者却寥寥无几。
在那个历史性的峥嵘岁月里，火山岩浆般喷射着的革命激情，此刻已经凝固在这里了，凝固得那样沉寂。历史就这样容易被忘记、被冷落？还是正被生存压力驱赶得急匆匆的人们无暇光顾这里？
一位老太太拄着拐杖，由40多岁的儿子陪伴着进了大厅，宁静的大厅里多了一点除我之外的轻微脚步声。讲解员们不知道都忙什么去了，大概她们已经习惯于这里已不大需要她们来费神。能来这里参观的大多不需要再讲解什么了，他们来这里，只是为了一种怀念，一种寄托，一种追忆。
又来了一位坐轮椅的老头儿，留着浓浓的灰白胡须，神情冷峻而阴沉，对着大厅正面的画像，脱帽凝视良久。也许此刻他的心中正涌动着万顷狂飙：疾驰的战马，闪亮的军刀，炽热的战火，嘹亮的军歌；在生与死之间，血与火之中，记忆最深的那一刻……
不需要询问便知道他是常来这里的参观者中的一个，不需要了解便明白他的大半人生都与这里的每一项陈列有着血肉般的联系。可是我想，这座城市中的每一个成员，哪一位的人生与命运不曾与这里的一切有着千丝万缕的关系？是70年前克里姆林的红灯，点亮了这里彻夜的华灯；是70年前阿芙乐尔的炮声，化作了这里机器的轰鸣；是70年前斯莫尔尼的春风，吹开了这座城市的花朵；是70年前镰刀铁锤的旗帜，崭新了这里破旧的面容。
历史的河流即使是改道了，也应该懂得那生命之水曾来之不易；时代的季节轮换成盛夏了，也应该铭记那春雨曾对秋花的哺育。我不相信，秋叶落了鸟儿会忘记这里曾有过的绿荫；我不相信，春花谢了果实会失去对春风的敬重。这里的人民，善良而真诚，有着很高的素质和水准；这里的人民，成熟而深沉，很看重民族的荣誉和责任。
突然，大厅的玻璃门被猛地推开了，一大群少年儿童在老师的带领下，吵闹着、嬉笑着、喊叫着涌进大厅，打破了原先的宁静。书包在跃动，领巾在飘曳；顿时，橱窗前、画像前、展板前，围满了好奇的眼神。
欣慰之中我也明白，也许他们是这个世界上最后一批之中最年轻的有幸把这里的一切留在心底的参观者了。或许下一个70年后，他们会用骄傲的口气对儿孙们说：“小时候，我还赶上了能见到伏龙芝画像的机会。那个故居现在早已不存在了，但在记忆中，那是个勇敢而又坚强的好人……”
这个预想并非缺乏依据，因为，尽管广场上列宁的画像似乎还在，但飘扬的已经不是镰刀铁锤的旗帜；尽管儿童们还戴着红领巾，但《国际歌》的音符对他们已经很陌生。历史的走向已经无需我来预测了，但我坚信，最难以抹去的，是建在人们心里的纪念馆；最有生命力的，是让世人诚服的历史真情。
如果有一天，这里被完全拆除，或成为废墟，或被新的建筑代替，我想，这不应该成为遗憾，不应该被视为悲剧。因为不论是被拆除还是被代替，只不过是星落日升般的历史过程，人类社会本身，不就是从不断地被拆除、被代替，走向更新的被拆除与被代替吗？没有永存的建筑，只有永存的大地。冰峰是崇高而神圣的，因为曾有无数攀登者永埋在雪地；大海是伟大而迷人的，因为曾有无数远航者断魂于海底；坦荡而又乐观地看待这一切吧，即使是无影无踪地消失了，也还毕竟是消失在大地母亲的怀抱里。
伏龙芝纪念馆，如果真有了这一天，我想你一定能给予人们这样的启迪……
游唐勒乔克市场
各色商品在这里汇集，各路人流在这里会聚，各类语言在这里交流，各种利益在这里交易。唐勒乔克市场，是比什凯克这座大都市展示给世人的一个活的橱窗，是一颗正在加速着城乡商品流通的心脏。
有人说：“不去唐勒乔克市场买点货，就等于没去比什凯克。”来到这个市场就明白了，此话不仅仅是一个一般意义上的认识和评说，更在于它包罗的内容和展示的哲理非常真实、准确、深刻。其实，不论你买不买这里的东西，尤其是在星期日来这里一趟，你一定会有比最贵重的商品更有价值的收获，会激发起你一种深长的思索。
这里是一支社会境况的体温表，这里是一张人间世态的众相图，从腰缠万贯的巨富，到社会底层的乞丐，都在这里有意无意间展露着他们的心态和处境，他们的意愿和现状。不论是农民、牧民、工人、商人、机关公职人员，还是城市普通市民，都在这里占有着一方维持生存的领地。眼神里有亢奋、期待、落魄、失望；语言里有雄心、讥讽、牢骚、惆怅。批发的、零售的，以物换物的，贱卖旧货的；新鲜的蔬菜、陈旧的古董、时髦的服装、各类的动物；小自破旧玩具，大到二手汽车，轻自几片干椒，重到老式钢琴……包罗万象，无所不有。仿佛全城的劳什子都抽样集中在了这里。
仿佛原野上的绿草全都在暴风雪中枯萎了，只有这里的积雪下，还残存着供畜群维持生命的的嫩绿，拥挤和吵嚷是必然的；希望和失望、无奈与幻想，全都在这些值钱与不值钱的家什中等待着机遇。
生活的水位跌落了，必然会露出各类沉礁，社会的风雨袭来了，万木必然会东摆西摇。唐勒乔克市场，我从你纷繁的交易中，感受到了水位跌落后沉礁的窘困，风雨袭来后万木的惶恐。也许，这是一个难以避开的生存规律；也许，这是一个无法逆转的历史过程。但毕竟你已经成了这一切的一个绝妙的缩影。 大门前，一位孤独的演奏手风琴的俄罗斯老人，吸引了我们的视线，脚下翻放着一顶破旧的礼帽，里面有一些零碎的小钱。那曲调既不忧伤也不喜庆，不知是在祝贺着这座市场的兴旺，还是在哀怨着它的出现与存在。穿着各色服饰的人们从他身边走过，有无动于衷的，有视而不见的，有边走边看的，有好奇围观的，有欣赏音乐的，有施舍小钱的。从表情到举动，就看出了大千世界的万种心态在这里的流进与涌出是多么的丰富多彩。
而这位老人，也许在这里目睹的世风变换、人间百态已经太多太多了，只管拉他的手风琴，已无意于向这纷乱的世间表露半句，他已经深刻领悟了的、深切体味了的大半辈子曲折的人生。
眼下的唐勒乔克市场，正是这一切的生动说明。小市场，大社会，正在纷纷攘攘中提醒着人们：要生存、要发展，只有一条规律和原则——去平等、自由地竞争。
今天，千百个唐勒乔克市场，已经像雨后春笋，钻出了社会变型期的中亚各共和国古老而又肥沃的土层，成为一道时晴时雨、时兴时衰，时而明丽、时而晦暗的风景。不过，它还是个孩子，还很单纯，不可能现在就要求它不合时宜地深沉；它还是个幼苗，还很稚嫩，不可能马上就要求它变成参天的青松。但它毕竟让我在这里看到了中亚地区未来经济大交流的雏形。
能应运而生，就是正常的；是客观存在，就是合理的。被迫也罢，自愿也罢，喜欢也罢，讨厌也罢；参与也罢，观望也罢，好事也罢，坏事也罢；毕竟，一个游牧民族，在众多民族的参与下，开始了在市场经济大海里的航行。不论波涛多么汹涌，不论旋涡多么惊心，思维方式的改变，传统观念的更新已是势在必行，像高扬着的风帆，必将在海风中向遥远的彼岸行进。最终，会让一个世世代代生存在深山大谷中的游牧民族，在一个更为广阔的生存空间里再生。
邓小平大街巡礼
走在比什凯克的这条大街上，需要把脚步放轻，需要把步子迈正；因为一个和霭可亲、被世人敬仰的老人崇高的名字，和这里的每一块砖、每一块石、每一棵树、每一扇门都有着密切的联系。这里的每一个行人，都深知它的分量，懂得它的含义，看重着这份情感，自豪于这份荣誉，而我，就更应该百倍地珍惜。
邓小平大街，是佩挂在吉尔吉斯斯坦人民胸前的一条友谊的缎带，飘扬着我们伟大祖国的风采。
那雕刻着老人家头像的庄重的花岗岩石碑，竖立在那里，像是这条缎带上一枚神圣的佩章，高挂在中吉两国人民的心上。
顿时，这条街成了黄河与黄山的缩影、长江与长城的象征。满街的人流像壶口浪，满街的绿树像迎客松，满街的车流像三峡船，满街的高楼像八达岭。走在大街上，亲近和温暖的感觉会涌满你的周身。
邓小平大街，你像是中华母亲留在这里的一条温馨的棉背心，让我们在温暖中感受着母亲的体温。
一个世世代代崇尚和平与友谊的民族，必然会被另一个热爱和平与友谊的民族所敬重；一个祖祖辈辈坚守勤劳与善良的民族，必然会被另一个同样勤劳与善良的民族所感动。邓小平大街，其实是两个民族、两国人民数千年友好历史的延伸。
从大街的这头到那头，只有4.7公里的路程，却浓缩着一个民族从屈辱走向强盛的不平凡历程，从被岐视到受尊敬的历史见证。
我不知道当今世界上有多少城市的街道有这样的命名，但在这里，让我深刻地认识了一个友好邻邦千金难换的赤忱和真诚。
赤忱应该以赤忱来相报，真诚应该用真诚来回赠。一个倍受尊敬的民族的每一个成员，就该有相称的风范、相称的人品和相称的自尊。这条街道之所以被人们看得那么郑重，因为在这里，它成了中国人民的化身，体现着敢于主持正义的精神，肩负着善于帮助朋友的使命，从大街上涌动而过的是人们的爱戴、钦佩和信任。
但是，我不知道每一位来这里分享这种荣誉的中国人，是不是认真地惦量过自己的责任。因此，走在这条大街上，自豪之中并没让我觉得有丝毫的轻松。肩头的责任像泰山一样重。我期望所有来这里的中国人，让我们每个人的言行，都能对得起这条街上的每一块方砖、每一棵绿树、每一缕阳光、每一声鸟鸣。不要辜负了那尊重如千钧的石碑——那份巨人的庄严和神圣。
邓小平大街，你是一条山谷，一条开满了世代友好情谊之花的山谷；你是一条画廊，一条描画着共同繁荣的美好前景的画廊；你是一条长桥，一条凝聚着共造和平的坚定信念的长桥；你是一条长河，一条流淌着共同进步希望之水的长河。
今后，不论走到哪里，不论走到世界的任何一个角落，我都会对我的华人兄弟们说：只有祖国强盛，才是我们最大的人生目标和精神寄托，你才会感受到什么是国格辉映下的完美的人格。
不信？请到中亚地区吉尔吉斯斯坦的首都比什克凯，到邓小平大街，来体味一下这种会让你终生难忘的感觉……
在玛纳斯雕像前
一个响亮了几个世纪的名字，在一个民族的心灵里传递；一个塑造了几个世纪的形象，在一个民族的歌声里延续。一个流传了几个世纪的故事，在一个民族的琴弦上充实；一个崇拜了几个世纪的英雄，在一个民族的血液里的传奇。
玛纳斯，一位神话式的人物，一个浪漫的民族悠久文化的超级载体，此刻伫立在这里，伫立在比什凯克文化宫广场上，像一座伟岸的丰碑，让我情似浪涌、思如潮起……
在我很小的时候，我就知道了你，玛纳斯，那是在一位柯尔克孜流浪老艺人豪迈的歌声中，在他养好了身体后的活跃的情绪里……
在一个大雪弥天的冰冷的日子里，一位身穿光板皮衣的柯尔克孜老人卧倒在了我家的门前，山羊胡须上挂满了冰珠。尽管脸色蜡黄，身体虚弱，但却将一把库木孜琴紧紧抱在怀中，他斜靠在门板上已经没有了说话的气力，颤抖着的嘴唇只轻轻吐出了一句：“我是个阿肯，病倒在了这里，已经三天颗粒未进……”
父亲知道什么是阿肯，赶快抱着他进了我家的屋门。母亲端来了热腾腾的汤面，父亲赶快请来了医生。不谙世事的我，只是睁着好奇的眼睛观望着这些奇妙的情景。当晚，阿肯在温暖的房间里入睡以后，父亲悄声告诉我：“阿肯，就是最有学问的人，也是最受尊敬的人；他，是柯尔克孜民族史诗《玛纳斯》的一位弹唱艺人。” 望着他沉睡的神态，慈祥的面容，我明白了，没有学问，他不会到了这种境地才来求人。但我不明白，他胸中蕴藏着大海般的文化宝藏，堆集着高山般的精神食粮，为什么竟会沦落到挨门乞讨的令人心酸的悲惨境地。泪水，在我童年只懂得善良的心底里涌动，在我只懂得同情的眼眶中闪动。虽然那时，我不可能懂得什么是《玛纳斯》，也不可能懂得什么是世间最有价值、最有意义的艺术。但是我相信搭救一个落魄的人于危难之中，本身就应该是人类最美好的情感——它才能承载最珍贵的艺术。
人民的艺术，在黑暗的世道里不可能有多少立足之地，穷困的艺人们为了它，奉献了多少痴情，多少才情，多少热情。
生命的灯火在追求中熬灭，才艺的心血在酷爱中耗尽。《玛纳斯》，你是千千万万个这样的人民艺术家用心灵塑造而成的，你是世世代代的人民群众用集体的智慧在岁月中锤炼而成的。
此刻，你耸立在这里，耸立着的是一个民族一代代歌者的英魂，一个民族千百年不屈的精神，一个民族艰辛中闪烁的灵感，一个民族苦难中创造的自尊。
抚摸着这花岗岩雕成的巨型雕像，我仿佛揣摸着这个民族坚毅的性格。没有这性格，就难以打磨出震惊世界的艺术杰作；没有这性格，就难以高吟出举世仰慕的英雄颂歌。
车水马龙的大街上已华灯初上，晚霞映红了这里的楼房、绿树与广场。一位大胡子老人领着小孙女在这里徜徉，像太阳牵着一轮俊美的月亮。
孙女问：“爷爷，据说死了的人才有这样大的雕像，他死了么？”
“不，他永远活着。”
“那他为什么不骑着那匹骏马，从那高座上走下来呢？”
“走下来就会融化在我们之中了。”
“为什么呢？”
爷爷没吱声，半晌，只说了一句：“你看天上，太阳不是被星星们融化了么？因为它是由无数个星星的光亮和热能组成的。”
孙女儿努着小嘴说：“不，是太阳的光辉照亮了星星。”
爷爷笑着没言语，少顷，只默默说道：“不过太阳的确是由无数个星星凝聚而成的。然后，它又照亮了星星。”
玛纳斯纹丝不动地伫立在那里，没有表情，没有回音。他已把一个伟大而又雄奇的传说沉淀在一个民族深厚的心底了，这本身就已是一个永远也诉说不完、研究不透的话题，任人们谈论。
而他，只是在这里默默地倾听……
致广场卖花女郎
碧色的眼睛，金色的头发，白晰的皮肤，红润的脸庞——你，本身就像是一朵鲜花在那里开放，还需在这百花盛开的广场，再开一座鲜花商店，后面还连着一座葱郁而又绚丽的花房？
我觉得这里的芬芳，似乎不是来自那些满目争奇斗艳的花朵，而是来自你高雅的风度、深厚的教养、甜美的微笑和心底的善良。
你头扎花头巾，身穿“布拉琪”，亭亭玉立在鲜花旁，让我一下子就闻到了俄罗斯文化的芬芳——那种从白桦林木屋旁的小茶炉里飘出的芳香，那种从摆着雕花木碗、木勺的餐布上飘出的烤面包和酸牛奶的芳香，那种从欢快、幽默的俄罗斯舞步中踏出的黑泥土的芳香，那种从女诗人阿赫马托娃的组诗《野蔷薇开花了》中溢出的和从《莫斯科郊外的晚上》的小夜曲中飘出的芳香。我感受到了一个民族心灵的多彩和俊美，对生活的热爱和期望。
放眼晨光中明丽的市容、洁净的街道、鲜亮的绿树、川流不息的车队、匆忙自信的人群，而人们手中的鲜花，就像这张城市笑脸上荡漾着的春风，使所有的一切都显得那么生动、迷人……
所有爱美的人，心都是相通的；所有鲜花中的祝福都是美好的；所有用鲜花表达的意愿都是纯真的。在这座城市里，不论车站码头的迎送，还是花前月下的幽会，不论至友亲朋的探访，还是兄弟姐妹的团聚，不论新房的祝贺还是产房的喜庆，不论陵园的送葬还是病房的问候……总是伴着鲜花的开放，总是捧着满怀的芬芳。我未曾想到，鲜花，竟能在一个民族的社会生活里有着如此重要的位置，在一个民族的精神生活中有着如此大的能量。
在比什凯克的风景线上，许多情景曾让我备感欣悦，备受感动：我欣赏行驶着的地铁车厢里，人们一个个手捧书籍阅读的那种专注神情；我欣悦于在广场、海滨、草坪上，人们与鸽子和海鸥们亲近嬉戏的那颗爱心；我赞赏人们常到烈士陵园或纪念碑前悼念的那份真诚；我更感动于在一切场合，总是女士优先的那些彬彬有礼的男士们的风度。这一切，都让我从热爱鲜花中找到了答案，从崇尚美好中理解了他们，也理解了他们为实现崇高理想的那种献身精神。
当然，我也同样理解你，美丽的卖花女郎，不论社会生活的航船是行驶在风和日丽的洋面，还是颠箥在风骤雨狂的浪尖，坚守善良，崇尚美好，是一个民族、一种社会成熟与自信的试金石，文化底蕴深厚与否的标志。因为，爱和美，能表达所有的幸福，也能化解一切不幸，而你和你的花房如此受人们欢迎，如此兴旺，不就是一个明证？
尽管现在，你的许多金发碧眼的同胞去了俄罗斯，但你却坚持留在了这里，留下了一种信念，留下了一种理想：做友谊的使者、情感的桥梁，让生活里充满纯洁与美好。让各民族的精神风采都能在对美的追求中闪亮。像海潮退去了，留在金色沙滩的一枚美丽贝壳，与五彩斑烂的海螺们一起，装点海岸线一般多姿的生活。
每一个民族都喜爱鲜花，每一个国度里都有卖花姑娘，但是，我却要特意地赞美你，比什凯克的卖花女郎，在这个满目都是绿树红花的国度里，你用你的美丽、热情与真诚，留给我的印象是那么的难忘，对人生、对世界、对友情的思索，也就格外深长……
其实，在我看来，你就是这座城市最动人的形象女郎。
Sentiments over Former Residence of Frunze
Frunze is the former name of Bishkek，the capital of Kyrgyzstan.
Once this name was like a fire illuminating my heart in the teenage age when I was enthusiastically admiring revolution； once it was also a flag flying in my heart in the youth time when I was filled with ideals and best wishes. Among Soviet Union revolutionary leaders of October Revolutions， Frunze， as the only one who was born in the remote area of Central Asia， was once brought us so many legends with his extraordinary experiences which could still excite us even now. Today I came here to embrace this forest-like city named after him， to visit his former residence and seek his life track which was once accompanied by lightening and thundering. Curiosity， admiration， pity and sense of loss mixed in my feelings and expressed through my eyes， which followed me to conduct and experience this late visit.
The residence， old， short and small， with masonry and timber structure has been surrounded by those lofty and magnificent buildings faced with granite； his huge picture was hang on the frontal wall of the memorial hall； his items used in his revolutionary life were displayed in delicately gleaming glass cabinets. However， visitors were rare.
In those historically glorious days， the revolutionary passion erupted like volcanic lava had already frozen here， frozen in such silence. Did history sink into oblivion and desolation in such an easy way？ Or those bustling people driven by survival pressure were too much occupied to pay a visit here？
An old lady on her crutch was accompanied into the hall by her around 40-year-old son， which added some slight footsteps in the serene hall. Those interpreters were nowhere to be seen. Possibly they were used to this little disturbing job. Virtually visitors who came here don’t need any interpretation. They come here only for sort of some memories， anchoring or rememberance.
Then came an old man on a wheel chair. His face clouded with heavy grey beard looked solemn and somber. He， with hat off， stared on the huge picture for quite a while. In my guess maybe his heart was then filled with overwhelming memories： galloping war horses， shining sabers， brining gun fires， clear marching songs or every moment in his deepest memory on the edge of life and death， in blood and fire...
No inquiry need I to tell that he is one of constant visitors； No chatting need I to know that most of his life was in flesh-and-blood connection to each exhibit displayed here. Yet I bent my thought， to some extent， wasn’t everyone in this city， everyone’s life and fate， inextricably tied up with everything displayed here？ It was red lights in Kremlin 70 years ago that lit up the sleepless street lamps； It was the gun-booming from Avrora 70 years ago that turned into the machines’ rumbling； It was spring wind from Smolny 70 years ago that bloomed flowers in this city； It was the flag emblazoned with a hammer and sickle 70 years ago ironed the morose face of this city.
Even the river of history diverted its course， it is bound to understand the life water was once far from easy to get； even the season changed to summer， the nourishment for flowers from spring rain should be always be remembered. I don’t believe that birds would forget the green shade of a leaves-denuded tree； I don’t believe either that the fruits that shed flowers would lose their respect to spring wind. People on this land with sincere kindness are of respect-worthy nobleness and dignity； they are of maturity and wisdom， shouldering the honor and responsibility for their nation. All of a sudden， the glass door was pushed open and in came a group of children led by a teacher； the playful laughter， noises， and shouting crowded into the hall and broke its serenity ever. Bags， scarves were everywhere， leaping and wavering； and in no time the glass cabinets， the picture， and the display panels were surrounded by curious eyes.
I felt relieved meanwhile I understood that maybe in this world they would be among the youngest of the last generation who could see all of these with their own eyes. Perhaps another 70 years later， they might talk to their grand generation with pride： “When I was a kid， I still had the luck to see the picture of Frunze in his former residence. That place has already gone but in my memory， he was such a valiant good guy...”
This guess is not based on nothing because as we see， though the picture of Lenin is still hung on the square， the flag is not the one emblazoned with a hammer and sickle. Though the children are still wearing the red ties， they have already been very strange to the notes of the Internationale. The trend of history needs me not to predict. However， I always hold the strong belief that those memorials built in people’s heart are the strongest to wipe off； the true feelings in history accepted by people are of the greatest vigor and vitality.
If one day this place would be demolished completely， becoming ruins or being taken place by new buildings， I think， it shouldn’t be a pity or regarded as a tragedy， because in history this is only a process as naturally as sun rises or star falls and isn’t it true that the history of human society itself is a process from being demolished or being replaced to another new cycle of being demolished or being replaced？ Only this land is of eternality and by no means is any building. Ice-capped peaks are lofty and holy therefore numberless climbers wouldn’t fear to be buried in snow； the ocean is great and fascinating therefore numberless sailors would rather die for it. Thus so， adopt an optimistic and magnanimous attitude towards all of these. After all， everything would finally disappear into the arms of the Mother Earth.
If Frunze House Museum walks to its last day， I think， it would at least bring people with such enlightenment...
Strolling around Dordoy Bazaar
Here in this place， goods of all kinds are gathering， people of all walks meeting； different languages have enabled verbal communicating international and different interests have made the trade conducting. Dordoy Bazaar is a vivid display window with which the metropolis Bishkek presents itself to the outer world； it is a heart which beating is speeding products exchanges between the city and the countryside. A saying goes： “You would not have been to Bishkek unless you buy something on Dordoy Bazaar.” You would understand that as soon as you are really here. This is not a random saying or commenting； its meaning contains something philosophically true， exact， and deep. In fact， buying things or not does not matter. You will be inspired into deep thoughts by the Bazaar if you would come here on one Sunday. What you get in your soul would be more valuable than any expensive goods here.
This place is a thermometer of social situations or a panorama of all figures： millionaires rolling in money or beggars on the bottom rung of society would reveal themselves idly or intentionally. Everyone， no matter who you are， nomad or worker， businessman or staff member， or city commoner， would find your own living place here. In their eyes you will see excitement， expectation， or disappointment； from their mouth you will hear ambition， irony， complaints or worries. From fresh vegetables to different animals， from old antique to fashion clothes， from small old toys to big second hand cars， from light dry pepper to heavy old piano， everything on wholesale， retail， barter， or second hand clearance sale could be found on Dordoy Bazaar. Seemingly items of the whole city were sampled and gathered here.
It was like that all green grass on prairie were withered by snowstorm and only under remaining snow left some hopeful green for cattle’s survival， thus crowding and crying would be inevitable； Whether there is hope or disappointment， destined acceptance or illusion， everything， expensive or cheap， seems to await their opportunities.
When life river ebbs， underwater rocks will certainly appear； when social storms come， all trees will surely be shaken. I did feel the embarrassment of revealed rocks from the busy exchanges of Dordoy Bazaar， as well as the fear of trees attacked by storms. Maybe it is an inescapable survival rule； maybe it is an irreversible historical process. Whatever it is， the Bazaar has absolutely become a perfect miniature of all happened.
In front of one gate， a lonely old Russian was playing accordion， which attracted our eyes. A ragged hat was in front of his feet， with some changes inside. The tune was neither sad nor happy. I wonder whether it was congratulating the prosperity of the Bazaar or sighing for its emerging and existence. People wearing a motley collection of clothes passed beside him； some are indifferent， some blind， some watching， some appreciating and some giving. The panorama of facial expressions and behaviors makes a colorful world with numerous kinds of emotions. This old man， however， might have seen too many vicissitudes of this world and already run the whole gamut of human experiences so that he would rather enjoy his lonely accordionist-playing than say any word about the world. He might have already been deeply enlightened by the ups and downs in his life.
Dordoy Bazaar at this moment was a witness of everything once happened. Small market is the reflection of a big society， which is reminding people that there is only one rule or principle to survive and develop---equal and free competition.
Now thousands of “Dordoy Bazaars” have sprung up like bamboo shoots after a spring rain， sprung out of the ancient and fertile soil of Central Ancient lands which are at their social turning points. These markets have become scenery which alternates between rain and sunshine， rise and fall. Sometimes it is brightly beautiful， sometimes in its bleakness. Meanwhile it is still as young as a pure child who is not supposed to be inopportunely mature； it remains as a tender seedling and impossible to grow into a big tree in short time. Even so a looming start of economic exchanges of Central Asia in future has revealed itself to me.
Those born at propitious time are normal， objective and reasonable. No one cares whether this market is formed in a forceful way or in a voluntary way， or whether it is liked or disliked. It is all ok if you will be a participator or a speculator； and it matters nothing if you think it is good or bad. After all， a nomadic nationality with all people’s participation has commenced its sail on the ocean of market economy. No matter how rough the bellows are， or how horrifying the whirlpools， the changes of thinking ways， and the update of traditional ideas have already on their way， like a high flying sail； they will surely sail toward the distant destination in the oceanic waves. Finally these changes will enable a nomadic nationality that lived in valleys and mountains from generation to generation to resume a new life in a broader space.
Pilgrimage to Deng Xiaoping Avenue
This Avenue in Bishkek should only match to soft yet firm steps because every brick， every stone， every tree or every door was so closely connected with an amiable old man’s great name which was highly respected by people. Every person passed here understands its value and implication， treasures the love and friendship and is proud of this honor very much， while as for me all the feelings are hundred times stronger. Deng Xiaoping Avenue is a ribbon of friendship worn by Kyrgyzstan people and flying with the charm of my motherland.
The granite statue of the old man was erected there， looking like a holy medal on the flying ribbon and in the hearts of Kyrgyzstan people and Chinese people.
For that moment， this avenue became the miniature of the Yellow River and the Yellow Mountain， the symbol of the Yangtze River and the Great Wall. The street stream seemed to reflect the waves of Hukou Waterfall； green trees opened their arms like greeting pines on Huangshan Mountain； the traffic was as busy as ships on the Three Gorges； high buildings were as lofty as Badaling Great Wall. Walking on the avenue you will be encompassed by the feelings of closeness and warmth.
Deng Xiaoping Avenue was like a sweet little quilted jacket prepared by our mother country for us to feel her warmth.
A nation who loves peace and cherishes friendship through the ages would surely be respected by another nation with like-minded； a bona fide and industrious nation will absolutely be moved by another nation with kindred spirit. Deng Xiaoping Avenue is actually the extension of friendship history between the two peoples.
From this end to that one， the only 4.7 km length condensed an extraordinary journey of a nation from humiliation to prosperity. It was a witness of the history from being discriminated to being respected.
I don’t know how many avenues in this world was named this way but here I， in my very deep heart， felt the invaluable warm-heartedness and sincerity of a friendly neighbor.
Warm-heartedness and sincerity must be embraced by the same. Each member of a nation with respectability deserves accordingly grace， character and dignity. The reason why this avenue is so seriously valued is because here it is the representative of Chinese people which represents righteousness and loyal friendship. On this avenue is filled with people’s admiration， love and trust.
But I don’t know whether every Chinese who shares the honor seriously considered the responsibility or not. Therefore walking on this avenue my pride didn’t release me. I feel my responsibility is as heavy as Mt. Tai. I hope every Chinese who come here would behave worthy of the honor reflected by each brick， each green tree， each ray of sunshine and each chirping of a bird. Don’t fail the expectation of the stone statue---the solemnity and holiness from a great person. Deng Xiaoping Avenue is like a valley which is covered with blossom of friendship flowers； you are also like a gallery which displays the prosperity of our common beautiful future； you are a bridge which connects our common faith to build a peaceful world； you are a long river flowing with the hope of our common progress and development.
Wherever I go， I will hold such a faith and share it with my fellow guys： the prosperity of the mother country should be the goal and inner resources of an individual and only this way you may feel the perfect glory rendered by your mother land.
Don’t believe it？ Please come to Deng Xiaoping Avenue in Bishkek， the capital of Kyrgyzstan in Central Asia and taste the feeling that you will never forget in your whole life.
In Front of Manas Statue
A name lasted for centuries has been passed in the heart of a nation； an image glorified for hundreds of years has been praised in the song of a nation. A story told in centuries has been enriched on the strings of qomuz （a kind of folk instrument played by Kyrgyz）. This is a hero admired by his people for centuries； this is a legend flowing in the blood of a nation for centuries.
Manas， a legendary hero， a super cultural carrier of a romantic nation， is now standing here on the Ala-Too Square like a lofty monument which stirs my heart into billows.
When I was still very young， I had heard about you， Manas， in the unconstrained and enthusiastic music of a Kyrgyz old man， in the lively and cheerful joy after his recovery from illness.
It was a chilly snowing day when an old Kyrgyz old man dressed in a leather coat fell in front of my house. His goatee beard was dotted by ice beads. Despite his paleness and weakness， he held tightly a qomuz in his arms. Leaning against the door， he lost his last strength to talk. His lips were quivering and would hardly form sentences but words： “I...akyn， fell down， three days， no food...”
My father knew akyn and hurriedly held him in arms into my home. My mother took some hot noodle with soup and my father rushed out for a doctor. I， being ignorant of the world， just watched all of these curiously. That night when the akyn fell asleep in his warm room， my father whispered to me： “Akyn， is the most knowledgeable person， also the most respectable； he is a recitative singer of the national poem Manas.”
He was in peaceful sleep， his face mild and kind. I understood if he were not so knowledgeable and with such a strong sense of self-esteem， he would come out to beg earlier. But I was still wondering since he possessed such a huge cultural treasure house inside as vast as an ocean， and abounded in so much spiritual food heaped as high as a mountain， why he still had been reduced to begging for living. Tears shed in my knowing-only kindness tender heart and sympathetic eyes. Though at such an age I couldn’t understand what is Manas or what is the most valuable and significant art. Yet I believed that it was a sweet and beautiful feeling to save a person when he was in time of adversity---and that is a feeling which can carry the most valuable art. In a dark world there were not many places for people’s art and those impoverished akyns devoted their love， their talents and their enthusiasm for the art in whole life.
The fire of life perished in their pursuit of art ； their passion and persistence finally exhausted. Manas， you are formed by souls of thousands of akyns； you are forged by all people’s wisdom from generation to generation.
Now you stand here as a heroic soul of all akyns of this nation， as the unbending spirit of this nation for thousands of years， as an inspiration of this nation twinkling in the hardness of this nation， and as the dignity that a nation procured for herself.
Touching on this huge statue made of granite， I seemed to touch the fortitude of this nation. Without the fortitude， no art masterpiece would be polished； without the fortitude， no heroic carol admired by the whole world would be created.
The bustling street witnessed the fall of the night curtain and the rosy glow of sunset painted the buildings， green tress and the squares into the same color. A beard old man took the hand of a little girl， strolling around and they were like the sun was leading the beautiful moon.
The little girl asked： “Grandpa， it was said that only dead man has such a huge statue， is he dead？ ”
“No， he lives for ever.”
“But why didn’t he step down with his horse from the base？”
“If he stepped down， he would melt among us.”
“But why？”
The old man didn’t respond， for a while. Then he talked： “Look， didn’t the sun melt among stars？ It was the light and heat of numberless stars that made it.”
Puckering her lips the little girl denied： “No， it was the sun rays lit up stars.”
The old man smiled and later he said peacefully： “True， the sun was made by numberless stars， and then it lit up stars.”
Manas stood still， silent and expressionless， and gave no response at all. He had already deposited a great and heroic legend in the deepest heart of the nation. The legend itself is an endless topic and research subject among people.
And he just stands here in silence， listening...
To the Flower Girl on the Square
Green eyes， blonde hair， fair skin and rosy cheeks---you， yourself are a fresh flower in full bloom， which made the flowers on the square， in the shops or in greenhouse unnecessary.
The fragrance was not from those blooming colorful flowers， but from your noble grace， endearing charm， sweet smile and kind-heartedness. Wearing a patterned scarf on head and dressed in beautiful “Brachi”， you were standing gracefully beside flowers. I could immediately smell the fragrance from the Russian culture---it was a sweet flavor wafted from teapot in cabinet of white birch forests； it was an attractive aroma from toasted bread and yogurt from delicately carved wood bowls and spoons on tablecloth； it was the scent from the black soil on which cheerful and humorous Russian girls were dancing； it was the fragrance emanated from the poems Wild Roses in Blossom of Akhmatova and from the serenade Moscow Nights. I felt the colorfulness and beauty of a nation’s soul as well as its passion and hope for life.
In my sight the city was in a clear morning： clean streets， bright green trees， bustling traffic and crowd； and flowers in people’s hands were blooming like the spreading smile on face； all of these looked so vivid and charming...
Love for beauty is in everyone’s heart； wishes represented by flowers are beautiful and pure. In this city， no matter what it is， meeting and greetings on stations or ports， dating by the flowers and under the moon， family gathering， celebrating of new house or new born or mourning in funeral or visiting in a ward， the whole life is accompanied with blooming flowers and filled with its fragrance. It was out of my expectation that， flowers could even play such an important role in the social life of a nation and provide so much energy in its spiritual life.
In Bishkek I was once moved and pleased by many things： I like people reading attentively in subway cars； I enjoy the harmony and love reflected on squares， beaches and grasslands when people are playing with seagulls and pigeons； I appreciate the sincerity when people were standing before monuments or in the Martyrs’ Cemetery； and what’s more I was touched by the gentlemanship of “lady first” naturally behaved on any occasion. I found all of these from the fragrance of flowers. I understand them from their love for beautiful flowers. I could also understand their devotion for a lofty ideal.
Surely I understand you， the flower girl. Wherever the ship of society is， on sailing on peaceful ocean of sunny days or wallowing in a stormy sea， the reservation of kindness and love for beauty is the touch stone of the confidence and maturity of a society； it is the symbol of a deep culture. Because， love and beauty can express all happiness and melt away all misfortune. And you， the flower girl and your garden house are so much loved by people； isn’t a good example of the prosperity？
Though many beautiful girls went to Russia， you chose to stay here with a faith or ideal： to be an envoy of friendship and love， to fill the life with purity and fragrance. You enabled the charm of a nation to shine in the pursuit of beauty. It was like on beaches when tide ebbed， a beautiful shell on the golden sands， together with other various couches was decorating the colorful coastal life.
Every nation loves flower， and in every country there is flower girl while here I would like to appraise you， the flower girl in Bishkek. In this beautiful country with green trees and red flowers， you impressed me so deeply with your beauty， enthusiasm and sincerity， which made me think deeper about life， about this world and about friendship...
Actually to the best of my belief， you are the very most charming image of this city.
（Translated by Wang Yanlin）
伏龙芝，是吉尔吉斯斯坦首都比什凯克以前的名称。
这个名字，曾经像一把烈火，照亮过我少年时代崇敬革命的心灵；曾经像一面旗帜，飘扬在我青年时代充满理想的胸中。在“十月革命”时期的那一代苏联革命领袖中，伏龙芝，这位唯一出生在边远中亚地区的革命者，曾有过那么多的传奇、那么多不凡的经历，以至于那些传奇至今仍让我们激动不已。
今天，当我置身于曾以他的名字命名的这座大森林般的城市的怀抱中，特别是来到他的故居，寻访他电闪雷鸣般的人生经历。新奇、敬仰、遗憾和失落——复杂的心情通过复杂的眼神，让我进行和经历着这次迟来的参观与访问。
他的砖木结构的陈旧而又矮小的故居，已被高大的花岗岩贴面的富丽建筑包裹着；他的巨幅画像迎面挂在纪念馆的正厅，他从事革命生涯的许多实物展示在精致的玻璃柜里。但是，来这里的参观者却寥寥无几。
在那个历史性的峥嵘岁月里，火山岩浆般喷射着的革命激情，此刻已经凝固在这里了，凝固得那样沉寂。历史就这样容易被忘记、被冷落？还是正被生存压力驱赶得急匆匆的人们无暇光顾这里？
一位老太太拄着拐杖，由40多岁的儿子陪伴着进了大厅，宁静的大厅里多了一点除我之外的轻微脚步声。讲解员们不知道都忙什么去了，大概她们已经习惯于这里已不大需要她们来费神。能来这里参观的大多不需要再讲解什么了，他们来这里，只是为了一种怀念，一种寄托，一种追忆。
又来了一位坐轮椅的老头儿，留着浓浓的灰白胡须，神情冷峻而阴沉，对着大厅正面的画像，脱帽凝视良久。也许此刻他的心中正涌动着万顷狂飙：疾驰的战马，闪亮的军刀，炽热的战火，嘹亮的军歌；在生与死之间，血与火之中，记忆最深的那一刻……
不需要询问便知道他是常来这里的参观者中的一个，不需要了解便明白他的大半人生都与这里的每一项陈列有着血肉般的联系。可是我想，这座城市中的每一个成员，哪一位的人生与命运不曾与这里的一切有着千丝万缕的关系？是70年前克里姆林的红灯，点亮了这里彻夜的华灯；是70年前阿芙乐尔的炮声，化作了这里机器的轰鸣；是70年前斯莫尔尼的春风，吹开了这座城市的花朵；是70年前镰刀铁锤的旗帜，崭新了这里破旧的面容。
历史的河流即使是改道了，也应该懂得那生命之水曾来之不易；时代的季节轮换成盛夏了，也应该铭记那春雨曾对秋花的哺育。我不相信，秋叶落了鸟儿会忘记这里曾有过的绿荫；我不相信，春花谢了果实会失去对春风的敬重。这里的人民，善良而真诚，有着很高的素质和水准；这里的人民，成熟而深沉，很看重民族的荣誉和责任。
突然，大厅的玻璃门被猛地推开了，一大群少年儿童在老师的带领下，吵闹着、嬉笑着、喊叫着涌进大厅，打破了原先的宁静。书包在跃动，领巾在飘曳；顿时，橱窗前、画像前、展板前，围满了好奇的眼神。
欣慰之中我也明白，也许他们是这个世界上最后一批之中最年轻的有幸把这里的一切留在心底的参观者了。或许下一个70年后，他们会用骄傲的口气对儿孙们说：“小时候，我还赶上了能见到伏龙芝画像的机会。那个故居现在早已不存在了，但在记忆中，那是个勇敢而又坚强的好人……”
这个预想并非缺乏依据，因为，尽管广场上列宁的画像似乎还在，但飘扬的已经不是镰刀铁锤的旗帜；尽管儿童们还戴着红领巾，但《国际歌》的音符对他们已经很陌生。历史的走向已经无需我来预测了，但我坚信，最难以抹去的，是建在人们心里的纪念馆；最有生命力的，是让世人诚服的历史真情。
如果有一天，这里被完全拆除，或成为废墟，或被新的建筑代替，我想，这不应该成为遗憾，不应该被视为悲剧。因为不论是被拆除还是被代替，只不过是星落日升般的历史过程，人类社会本身，不就是从不断地被拆除、被代替，走向更新的被拆除与被代替吗？没有永存的建筑，只有永存的大地。冰峰是崇高而神圣的，因为曾有无数攀登者永埋在雪地；大海是伟大而迷人的，因为曾有无数远航者断魂于海底；坦荡而又乐观地看待这一切吧，即使是无影无踪地消失了，也还毕竟是消失在大地母亲的怀抱里。
伏龙芝纪念馆，如果真有了这一天，我想你一定能给予人们这样的启迪……
游唐勒乔克市场
各色商品在这里汇集，各路人流在这里会聚，各类语言在这里交流，各种利益在这里交易。唐勒乔克市场，是比什凯克这座大都市展示给世人的一个活的橱窗，是一颗正在加速着城乡商品流通的心脏。
有人说：“不去唐勒乔克市场买点货，就等于没去比什凯克。”来到这个市场就明白了，此话不仅仅是一个一般意义上的认识和评说，更在于它包罗的内容和展示的哲理非常真实、准确、深刻。其实，不论你买不买这里的东西，尤其是在星期日来这里一趟，你一定会有比最贵重的商品更有价值的收获，会激发起你一种深长的思索。
这里是一支社会境况的体温表，这里是一张人间世态的众相图，从腰缠万贯的巨富，到社会底层的乞丐，都在这里有意无意间展露着他们的心态和处境，他们的意愿和现状。不论是农民、牧民、工人、商人、机关公职人员，还是城市普通市民，都在这里占有着一方维持生存的领地。眼神里有亢奋、期待、落魄、失望；语言里有雄心、讥讽、牢骚、惆怅。批发的、零售的，以物换物的，贱卖旧货的；新鲜的蔬菜、陈旧的古董、时髦的服装、各类的动物；小自破旧玩具，大到二手汽车，轻自几片干椒，重到老式钢琴……包罗万象，无所不有。仿佛全城的劳什子都抽样集中在了这里。
仿佛原野上的绿草全都在暴风雪中枯萎了，只有这里的积雪下，还残存着供畜群维持生命的的嫩绿，拥挤和吵嚷是必然的；希望和失望、无奈与幻想，全都在这些值钱与不值钱的家什中等待着机遇。
生活的水位跌落了，必然会露出各类沉礁，社会的风雨袭来了，万木必然会东摆西摇。唐勒乔克市场，我从你纷繁的交易中，感受到了水位跌落后沉礁的窘困，风雨袭来后万木的惶恐。也许，这是一个难以避开的生存规律；也许，这是一个无法逆转的历史过程。但毕竟你已经成了这一切的一个绝妙的缩影。 大门前，一位孤独的演奏手风琴的俄罗斯老人，吸引了我们的视线，脚下翻放着一顶破旧的礼帽，里面有一些零碎的小钱。那曲调既不忧伤也不喜庆，不知是在祝贺着这座市场的兴旺，还是在哀怨着它的出现与存在。穿着各色服饰的人们从他身边走过，有无动于衷的，有视而不见的，有边走边看的，有好奇围观的，有欣赏音乐的，有施舍小钱的。从表情到举动，就看出了大千世界的万种心态在这里的流进与涌出是多么的丰富多彩。
而这位老人，也许在这里目睹的世风变换、人间百态已经太多太多了，只管拉他的手风琴，已无意于向这纷乱的世间表露半句，他已经深刻领悟了的、深切体味了的大半辈子曲折的人生。
眼下的唐勒乔克市场，正是这一切的生动说明。小市场，大社会，正在纷纷攘攘中提醒着人们：要生存、要发展，只有一条规律和原则——去平等、自由地竞争。
今天，千百个唐勒乔克市场，已经像雨后春笋，钻出了社会变型期的中亚各共和国古老而又肥沃的土层，成为一道时晴时雨、时兴时衰，时而明丽、时而晦暗的风景。不过，它还是个孩子，还很单纯，不可能现在就要求它不合时宜地深沉；它还是个幼苗，还很稚嫩，不可能马上就要求它变成参天的青松。但它毕竟让我在这里看到了中亚地区未来经济大交流的雏形。
能应运而生，就是正常的；是客观存在，就是合理的。被迫也罢，自愿也罢，喜欢也罢，讨厌也罢；参与也罢，观望也罢，好事也罢，坏事也罢；毕竟，一个游牧民族，在众多民族的参与下，开始了在市场经济大海里的航行。不论波涛多么汹涌，不论旋涡多么惊心，思维方式的改变，传统观念的更新已是势在必行，像高扬着的风帆，必将在海风中向遥远的彼岸行进。最终，会让一个世世代代生存在深山大谷中的游牧民族，在一个更为广阔的生存空间里再生。
邓小平大街巡礼
走在比什凯克的这条大街上，需要把脚步放轻，需要把步子迈正；因为一个和霭可亲、被世人敬仰的老人崇高的名字，和这里的每一块砖、每一块石、每一棵树、每一扇门都有着密切的联系。这里的每一个行人，都深知它的分量，懂得它的含义，看重着这份情感，自豪于这份荣誉，而我，就更应该百倍地珍惜。
邓小平大街，是佩挂在吉尔吉斯斯坦人民胸前的一条友谊的缎带，飘扬着我们伟大祖国的风采。
那雕刻着老人家头像的庄重的花岗岩石碑，竖立在那里，像是这条缎带上一枚神圣的佩章，高挂在中吉两国人民的心上。
顿时，这条街成了黄河与黄山的缩影、长江与长城的象征。满街的人流像壶口浪，满街的绿树像迎客松，满街的车流像三峡船，满街的高楼像八达岭。走在大街上，亲近和温暖的感觉会涌满你的周身。
邓小平大街，你像是中华母亲留在这里的一条温馨的棉背心，让我们在温暖中感受着母亲的体温。
一个世世代代崇尚和平与友谊的民族，必然会被另一个热爱和平与友谊的民族所敬重；一个祖祖辈辈坚守勤劳与善良的民族，必然会被另一个同样勤劳与善良的民族所感动。邓小平大街，其实是两个民族、两国人民数千年友好历史的延伸。
从大街的这头到那头，只有4.7公里的路程，却浓缩着一个民族从屈辱走向强盛的不平凡历程，从被岐视到受尊敬的历史见证。
我不知道当今世界上有多少城市的街道有这样的命名，但在这里，让我深刻地认识了一个友好邻邦千金难换的赤忱和真诚。
赤忱应该以赤忱来相报，真诚应该用真诚来回赠。一个倍受尊敬的民族的每一个成员，就该有相称的风范、相称的人品和相称的自尊。这条街道之所以被人们看得那么郑重，因为在这里，它成了中国人民的化身，体现着敢于主持正义的精神，肩负着善于帮助朋友的使命，从大街上涌动而过的是人们的爱戴、钦佩和信任。
但是，我不知道每一位来这里分享这种荣誉的中国人，是不是认真地惦量过自己的责任。因此，走在这条大街上，自豪之中并没让我觉得有丝毫的轻松。肩头的责任像泰山一样重。我期望所有来这里的中国人，让我们每个人的言行，都能对得起这条街上的每一块方砖、每一棵绿树、每一缕阳光、每一声鸟鸣。不要辜负了那尊重如千钧的石碑——那份巨人的庄严和神圣。
邓小平大街，你是一条山谷，一条开满了世代友好情谊之花的山谷；你是一条画廊，一条描画着共同繁荣的美好前景的画廊；你是一条长桥，一条凝聚着共造和平的坚定信念的长桥；你是一条长河，一条流淌着共同进步希望之水的长河。
今后，不论走到哪里，不论走到世界的任何一个角落，我都会对我的华人兄弟们说：只有祖国强盛，才是我们最大的人生目标和精神寄托，你才会感受到什么是国格辉映下的完美的人格。
不信？请到中亚地区吉尔吉斯斯坦的首都比什克凯，到邓小平大街，来体味一下这种会让你终生难忘的感觉……
在玛纳斯雕像前
一个响亮了几个世纪的名字，在一个民族的心灵里传递；一个塑造了几个世纪的形象，在一个民族的歌声里延续。一个流传了几个世纪的故事，在一个民族的琴弦上充实；一个崇拜了几个世纪的英雄，在一个民族的血液里的传奇。
玛纳斯，一位神话式的人物，一个浪漫的民族悠久文化的超级载体，此刻伫立在这里，伫立在比什凯克文化宫广场上，像一座伟岸的丰碑，让我情似浪涌、思如潮起……
在我很小的时候，我就知道了你，玛纳斯，那是在一位柯尔克孜流浪老艺人豪迈的歌声中，在他养好了身体后的活跃的情绪里……
在一个大雪弥天的冰冷的日子里，一位身穿光板皮衣的柯尔克孜老人卧倒在了我家的门前，山羊胡须上挂满了冰珠。尽管脸色蜡黄，身体虚弱，但却将一把库木孜琴紧紧抱在怀中，他斜靠在门板上已经没有了说话的气力，颤抖着的嘴唇只轻轻吐出了一句：“我是个阿肯，病倒在了这里，已经三天颗粒未进……”
父亲知道什么是阿肯，赶快抱着他进了我家的屋门。母亲端来了热腾腾的汤面，父亲赶快请来了医生。不谙世事的我，只是睁着好奇的眼睛观望着这些奇妙的情景。当晚，阿肯在温暖的房间里入睡以后，父亲悄声告诉我：“阿肯，就是最有学问的人，也是最受尊敬的人；他，是柯尔克孜民族史诗《玛纳斯》的一位弹唱艺人。” 望着他沉睡的神态，慈祥的面容，我明白了，没有学问，他不会到了这种境地才来求人。但我不明白，他胸中蕴藏着大海般的文化宝藏，堆集着高山般的精神食粮，为什么竟会沦落到挨门乞讨的令人心酸的悲惨境地。泪水，在我童年只懂得善良的心底里涌动，在我只懂得同情的眼眶中闪动。虽然那时，我不可能懂得什么是《玛纳斯》，也不可能懂得什么是世间最有价值、最有意义的艺术。但是我相信搭救一个落魄的人于危难之中，本身就应该是人类最美好的情感——它才能承载最珍贵的艺术。
人民的艺术，在黑暗的世道里不可能有多少立足之地，穷困的艺人们为了它，奉献了多少痴情，多少才情，多少热情。
生命的灯火在追求中熬灭，才艺的心血在酷爱中耗尽。《玛纳斯》，你是千千万万个这样的人民艺术家用心灵塑造而成的，你是世世代代的人民群众用集体的智慧在岁月中锤炼而成的。
此刻，你耸立在这里，耸立着的是一个民族一代代歌者的英魂，一个民族千百年不屈的精神，一个民族艰辛中闪烁的灵感，一个民族苦难中创造的自尊。
抚摸着这花岗岩雕成的巨型雕像，我仿佛揣摸着这个民族坚毅的性格。没有这性格，就难以打磨出震惊世界的艺术杰作；没有这性格，就难以高吟出举世仰慕的英雄颂歌。
车水马龙的大街上已华灯初上，晚霞映红了这里的楼房、绿树与广场。一位大胡子老人领着小孙女在这里徜徉，像太阳牵着一轮俊美的月亮。
孙女问：“爷爷，据说死了的人才有这样大的雕像，他死了么？”
“不，他永远活着。”
“那他为什么不骑着那匹骏马，从那高座上走下来呢？”
“走下来就会融化在我们之中了。”
“为什么呢？”
爷爷没吱声，半晌，只说了一句：“你看天上，太阳不是被星星们融化了么？因为它是由无数个星星的光亮和热能组成的。”
孙女儿努着小嘴说：“不，是太阳的光辉照亮了星星。”
爷爷笑着没言语，少顷，只默默说道：“不过太阳的确是由无数个星星凝聚而成的。然后，它又照亮了星星。”
玛纳斯纹丝不动地伫立在那里，没有表情，没有回音。他已把一个伟大而又雄奇的传说沉淀在一个民族深厚的心底了，这本身就已是一个永远也诉说不完、研究不透的话题，任人们谈论。
而他，只是在这里默默地倾听……
致广场卖花女郎
碧色的眼睛，金色的头发，白晰的皮肤，红润的脸庞——你，本身就像是一朵鲜花在那里开放，还需在这百花盛开的广场，再开一座鲜花商店，后面还连着一座葱郁而又绚丽的花房？
我觉得这里的芬芳，似乎不是来自那些满目争奇斗艳的花朵，而是来自你高雅的风度、深厚的教养、甜美的微笑和心底的善良。
你头扎花头巾，身穿“布拉琪”，亭亭玉立在鲜花旁，让我一下子就闻到了俄罗斯文化的芬芳——那种从白桦林木屋旁的小茶炉里飘出的芳香，那种从摆着雕花木碗、木勺的餐布上飘出的烤面包和酸牛奶的芳香，那种从欢快、幽默的俄罗斯舞步中踏出的黑泥土的芳香，那种从女诗人阿赫马托娃的组诗《野蔷薇开花了》中溢出的和从《莫斯科郊外的晚上》的小夜曲中飘出的芳香。我感受到了一个民族心灵的多彩和俊美，对生活的热爱和期望。
放眼晨光中明丽的市容、洁净的街道、鲜亮的绿树、川流不息的车队、匆忙自信的人群，而人们手中的鲜花，就像这张城市笑脸上荡漾着的春风，使所有的一切都显得那么生动、迷人……
所有爱美的人，心都是相通的；所有鲜花中的祝福都是美好的；所有用鲜花表达的意愿都是纯真的。在这座城市里，不论车站码头的迎送，还是花前月下的幽会，不论至友亲朋的探访，还是兄弟姐妹的团聚，不论新房的祝贺还是产房的喜庆，不论陵园的送葬还是病房的问候……总是伴着鲜花的开放，总是捧着满怀的芬芳。我未曾想到，鲜花，竟能在一个民族的社会生活里有着如此重要的位置，在一个民族的精神生活中有着如此大的能量。
在比什凯克的风景线上，许多情景曾让我备感欣悦，备受感动：我欣赏行驶着的地铁车厢里，人们一个个手捧书籍阅读的那种专注神情；我欣悦于在广场、海滨、草坪上，人们与鸽子和海鸥们亲近嬉戏的那颗爱心；我赞赏人们常到烈士陵园或纪念碑前悼念的那份真诚；我更感动于在一切场合，总是女士优先的那些彬彬有礼的男士们的风度。这一切，都让我从热爱鲜花中找到了答案，从崇尚美好中理解了他们，也理解了他们为实现崇高理想的那种献身精神。
当然，我也同样理解你，美丽的卖花女郎，不论社会生活的航船是行驶在风和日丽的洋面，还是颠箥在风骤雨狂的浪尖，坚守善良，崇尚美好，是一个民族、一种社会成熟与自信的试金石，文化底蕴深厚与否的标志。因为，爱和美，能表达所有的幸福，也能化解一切不幸，而你和你的花房如此受人们欢迎，如此兴旺，不就是一个明证？
尽管现在，你的许多金发碧眼的同胞去了俄罗斯，但你却坚持留在了这里，留下了一种信念，留下了一种理想：做友谊的使者、情感的桥梁，让生活里充满纯洁与美好。让各民族的精神风采都能在对美的追求中闪亮。像海潮退去了，留在金色沙滩的一枚美丽贝壳，与五彩斑烂的海螺们一起，装点海岸线一般多姿的生活。
每一个民族都喜爱鲜花，每一个国度里都有卖花姑娘，但是，我却要特意地赞美你，比什凯克的卖花女郎，在这个满目都是绿树红花的国度里，你用你的美丽、热情与真诚，留给我的印象是那么的难忘，对人生、对世界、对友情的思索，也就格外深长……
其实，在我看来，你就是这座城市最动人的形象女郎。
Sentiments over Former Residence of Frunze
Frunze is the former name of Bishkek，the capital of Kyrgyzstan.
Once this name was like a fire illuminating my heart in the teenage age when I was enthusiastically admiring revolution； once it was also a flag flying in my heart in the youth time when I was filled with ideals and best wishes. Among Soviet Union revolutionary leaders of October Revolutions， Frunze， as the only one who was born in the remote area of Central Asia， was once brought us so many legends with his extraordinary experiences which could still excite us even now. Today I came here to embrace this forest-like city named after him， to visit his former residence and seek his life track which was once accompanied by lightening and thundering. Curiosity， admiration， pity and sense of loss mixed in my feelings and expressed through my eyes， which followed me to conduct and experience this late visit.
The residence， old， short and small， with masonry and timber structure has been surrounded by those lofty and magnificent buildings faced with granite； his huge picture was hang on the frontal wall of the memorial hall； his items used in his revolutionary life were displayed in delicately gleaming glass cabinets. However， visitors were rare.
In those historically glorious days， the revolutionary passion erupted like volcanic lava had already frozen here， frozen in such silence. Did history sink into oblivion and desolation in such an easy way？ Or those bustling people driven by survival pressure were too much occupied to pay a visit here？
An old lady on her crutch was accompanied into the hall by her around 40-year-old son， which added some slight footsteps in the serene hall. Those interpreters were nowhere to be seen. Possibly they were used to this little disturbing job. Virtually visitors who came here don’t need any interpretation. They come here only for sort of some memories， anchoring or rememberance.
Then came an old man on a wheel chair. His face clouded with heavy grey beard looked solemn and somber. He， with hat off， stared on the huge picture for quite a while. In my guess maybe his heart was then filled with overwhelming memories： galloping war horses， shining sabers， brining gun fires， clear marching songs or every moment in his deepest memory on the edge of life and death， in blood and fire...
No inquiry need I to tell that he is one of constant visitors； No chatting need I to know that most of his life was in flesh-and-blood connection to each exhibit displayed here. Yet I bent my thought， to some extent， wasn’t everyone in this city， everyone’s life and fate， inextricably tied up with everything displayed here？ It was red lights in Kremlin 70 years ago that lit up the sleepless street lamps； It was the gun-booming from Avrora 70 years ago that turned into the machines’ rumbling； It was spring wind from Smolny 70 years ago that bloomed flowers in this city； It was the flag emblazoned with a hammer and sickle 70 years ago ironed the morose face of this city.
Even the river of history diverted its course， it is bound to understand the life water was once far from easy to get； even the season changed to summer， the nourishment for flowers from spring rain should be always be remembered. I don’t believe that birds would forget the green shade of a leaves-denuded tree； I don’t believe either that the fruits that shed flowers would lose their respect to spring wind. People on this land with sincere kindness are of respect-worthy nobleness and dignity； they are of maturity and wisdom， shouldering the honor and responsibility for their nation. All of a sudden， the glass door was pushed open and in came a group of children led by a teacher； the playful laughter， noises， and shouting crowded into the hall and broke its serenity ever. Bags， scarves were everywhere， leaping and wavering； and in no time the glass cabinets， the picture， and the display panels were surrounded by curious eyes.
I felt relieved meanwhile I understood that maybe in this world they would be among the youngest of the last generation who could see all of these with their own eyes. Perhaps another 70 years later， they might talk to their grand generation with pride： “When I was a kid， I still had the luck to see the picture of Frunze in his former residence. That place has already gone but in my memory， he was such a valiant good guy...”
This guess is not based on nothing because as we see， though the picture of Lenin is still hung on the square， the flag is not the one emblazoned with a hammer and sickle. Though the children are still wearing the red ties， they have already been very strange to the notes of the Internationale. The trend of history needs me not to predict. However， I always hold the strong belief that those memorials built in people’s heart are the strongest to wipe off； the true feelings in history accepted by people are of the greatest vigor and vitality.
If one day this place would be demolished completely， becoming ruins or being taken place by new buildings， I think， it shouldn’t be a pity or regarded as a tragedy， because in history this is only a process as naturally as sun rises or star falls and isn’t it true that the history of human society itself is a process from being demolished or being replaced to another new cycle of being demolished or being replaced？ Only this land is of eternality and by no means is any building. Ice-capped peaks are lofty and holy therefore numberless climbers wouldn’t fear to be buried in snow； the ocean is great and fascinating therefore numberless sailors would rather die for it. Thus so， adopt an optimistic and magnanimous attitude towards all of these. After all， everything would finally disappear into the arms of the Mother Earth.
If Frunze House Museum walks to its last day， I think， it would at least bring people with such enlightenment...
Strolling around Dordoy Bazaar
Here in this place， goods of all kinds are gathering， people of all walks meeting； different languages have enabled verbal communicating international and different interests have made the trade conducting. Dordoy Bazaar is a vivid display window with which the metropolis Bishkek presents itself to the outer world； it is a heart which beating is speeding products exchanges between the city and the countryside. A saying goes： “You would not have been to Bishkek unless you buy something on Dordoy Bazaar.” You would understand that as soon as you are really here. This is not a random saying or commenting； its meaning contains something philosophically true， exact， and deep. In fact， buying things or not does not matter. You will be inspired into deep thoughts by the Bazaar if you would come here on one Sunday. What you get in your soul would be more valuable than any expensive goods here.
This place is a thermometer of social situations or a panorama of all figures： millionaires rolling in money or beggars on the bottom rung of society would reveal themselves idly or intentionally. Everyone， no matter who you are， nomad or worker， businessman or staff member， or city commoner， would find your own living place here. In their eyes you will see excitement， expectation， or disappointment； from their mouth you will hear ambition， irony， complaints or worries. From fresh vegetables to different animals， from old antique to fashion clothes， from small old toys to big second hand cars， from light dry pepper to heavy old piano， everything on wholesale， retail， barter， or second hand clearance sale could be found on Dordoy Bazaar. Seemingly items of the whole city were sampled and gathered here.
It was like that all green grass on prairie were withered by snowstorm and only under remaining snow left some hopeful green for cattle’s survival， thus crowding and crying would be inevitable； Whether there is hope or disappointment， destined acceptance or illusion， everything， expensive or cheap， seems to await their opportunities.
When life river ebbs， underwater rocks will certainly appear； when social storms come， all trees will surely be shaken. I did feel the embarrassment of revealed rocks from the busy exchanges of Dordoy Bazaar， as well as the fear of trees attacked by storms. Maybe it is an inescapable survival rule； maybe it is an irreversible historical process. Whatever it is， the Bazaar has absolutely become a perfect miniature of all happened.
In front of one gate， a lonely old Russian was playing accordion， which attracted our eyes. A ragged hat was in front of his feet， with some changes inside. The tune was neither sad nor happy. I wonder whether it was congratulating the prosperity of the Bazaar or sighing for its emerging and existence. People wearing a motley collection of clothes passed beside him； some are indifferent， some blind， some watching， some appreciating and some giving. The panorama of facial expressions and behaviors makes a colorful world with numerous kinds of emotions. This old man， however， might have seen too many vicissitudes of this world and already run the whole gamut of human experiences so that he would rather enjoy his lonely accordionist-playing than say any word about the world. He might have already been deeply enlightened by the ups and downs in his life.
Dordoy Bazaar at this moment was a witness of everything once happened. Small market is the reflection of a big society， which is reminding people that there is only one rule or principle to survive and develop---equal and free competition.
Now thousands of “Dordoy Bazaars” have sprung up like bamboo shoots after a spring rain， sprung out of the ancient and fertile soil of Central Ancient lands which are at their social turning points. These markets have become scenery which alternates between rain and sunshine， rise and fall. Sometimes it is brightly beautiful， sometimes in its bleakness. Meanwhile it is still as young as a pure child who is not supposed to be inopportunely mature； it remains as a tender seedling and impossible to grow into a big tree in short time. Even so a looming start of economic exchanges of Central Asia in future has revealed itself to me.
Those born at propitious time are normal， objective and reasonable. No one cares whether this market is formed in a forceful way or in a voluntary way， or whether it is liked or disliked. It is all ok if you will be a participator or a speculator； and it matters nothing if you think it is good or bad. After all， a nomadic nationality with all people’s participation has commenced its sail on the ocean of market economy. No matter how rough the bellows are， or how horrifying the whirlpools， the changes of thinking ways， and the update of traditional ideas have already on their way， like a high flying sail； they will surely sail toward the distant destination in the oceanic waves. Finally these changes will enable a nomadic nationality that lived in valleys and mountains from generation to generation to resume a new life in a broader space.
Pilgrimage to Deng Xiaoping Avenue
This Avenue in Bishkek should only match to soft yet firm steps because every brick， every stone， every tree or every door was so closely connected with an amiable old man’s great name which was highly respected by people. Every person passed here understands its value and implication， treasures the love and friendship and is proud of this honor very much， while as for me all the feelings are hundred times stronger. Deng Xiaoping Avenue is a ribbon of friendship worn by Kyrgyzstan people and flying with the charm of my motherland.
The granite statue of the old man was erected there， looking like a holy medal on the flying ribbon and in the hearts of Kyrgyzstan people and Chinese people.
For that moment， this avenue became the miniature of the Yellow River and the Yellow Mountain， the symbol of the Yangtze River and the Great Wall. The street stream seemed to reflect the waves of Hukou Waterfall； green trees opened their arms like greeting pines on Huangshan Mountain； the traffic was as busy as ships on the Three Gorges； high buildings were as lofty as Badaling Great Wall. Walking on the avenue you will be encompassed by the feelings of closeness and warmth.
Deng Xiaoping Avenue was like a sweet little quilted jacket prepared by our mother country for us to feel her warmth.
A nation who loves peace and cherishes friendship through the ages would surely be respected by another nation with like-minded； a bona fide and industrious nation will absolutely be moved by another nation with kindred spirit. Deng Xiaoping Avenue is actually the extension of friendship history between the two peoples.
From this end to that one， the only 4.7 km length condensed an extraordinary journey of a nation from humiliation to prosperity. It was a witness of the history from being discriminated to being respected.
I don’t know how many avenues in this world was named this way but here I， in my very deep heart， felt the invaluable warm-heartedness and sincerity of a friendly neighbor.
Warm-heartedness and sincerity must be embraced by the same. Each member of a nation with respectability deserves accordingly grace， character and dignity. The reason why this avenue is so seriously valued is because here it is the representative of Chinese people which represents righteousness and loyal friendship. On this avenue is filled with people’s admiration， love and trust.
But I don’t know whether every Chinese who shares the honor seriously considered the responsibility or not. Therefore walking on this avenue my pride didn’t release me. I feel my responsibility is as heavy as Mt. Tai. I hope every Chinese who come here would behave worthy of the honor reflected by each brick， each green tree， each ray of sunshine and each chirping of a bird. Don’t fail the expectation of the stone statue---the solemnity and holiness from a great person. Deng Xiaoping Avenue is like a valley which is covered with blossom of friendship flowers； you are also like a gallery which displays the prosperity of our common beautiful future； you are a bridge which connects our common faith to build a peaceful world； you are a long river flowing with the hope of our common progress and development.
Wherever I go， I will hold such a faith and share it with my fellow guys： the prosperity of the mother country should be the goal and inner resources of an individual and only this way you may feel the perfect glory rendered by your mother land.
Don’t believe it？ Please come to Deng Xiaoping Avenue in Bishkek， the capital of Kyrgyzstan in Central Asia and taste the feeling that you will never forget in your whole life.
In Front of Manas Statue
A name lasted for centuries has been passed in the heart of a nation； an image glorified for hundreds of years has been praised in the song of a nation. A story told in centuries has been enriched on the strings of qomuz （a kind of folk instrument played by Kyrgyz）. This is a hero admired by his people for centuries； this is a legend flowing in the blood of a nation for centuries.
Manas， a legendary hero， a super cultural carrier of a romantic nation， is now standing here on the Ala-Too Square like a lofty monument which stirs my heart into billows.
When I was still very young， I had heard about you， Manas， in the unconstrained and enthusiastic music of a Kyrgyz old man， in the lively and cheerful joy after his recovery from illness.
It was a chilly snowing day when an old Kyrgyz old man dressed in a leather coat fell in front of my house. His goatee beard was dotted by ice beads. Despite his paleness and weakness， he held tightly a qomuz in his arms. Leaning against the door， he lost his last strength to talk. His lips were quivering and would hardly form sentences but words： “I...akyn， fell down， three days， no food...”
My father knew akyn and hurriedly held him in arms into my home. My mother took some hot noodle with soup and my father rushed out for a doctor. I， being ignorant of the world， just watched all of these curiously. That night when the akyn fell asleep in his warm room， my father whispered to me： “Akyn， is the most knowledgeable person， also the most respectable； he is a recitative singer of the national poem Manas.”
He was in peaceful sleep， his face mild and kind. I understood if he were not so knowledgeable and with such a strong sense of self-esteem， he would come out to beg earlier. But I was still wondering since he possessed such a huge cultural treasure house inside as vast as an ocean， and abounded in so much spiritual food heaped as high as a mountain， why he still had been reduced to begging for living. Tears shed in my knowing-only kindness tender heart and sympathetic eyes. Though at such an age I couldn’t understand what is Manas or what is the most valuable and significant art. Yet I believed that it was a sweet and beautiful feeling to save a person when he was in time of adversity---and that is a feeling which can carry the most valuable art. In a dark world there were not many places for people’s art and those impoverished akyns devoted their love， their talents and their enthusiasm for the art in whole life.
The fire of life perished in their pursuit of art ； their passion and persistence finally exhausted. Manas， you are formed by souls of thousands of akyns； you are forged by all people’s wisdom from generation to generation.
Now you stand here as a heroic soul of all akyns of this nation， as the unbending spirit of this nation for thousands of years， as an inspiration of this nation twinkling in the hardness of this nation， and as the dignity that a nation procured for herself.
Touching on this huge statue made of granite， I seemed to touch the fortitude of this nation. Without the fortitude， no art masterpiece would be polished； without the fortitude， no heroic carol admired by the whole world would be created.
The bustling street witnessed the fall of the night curtain and the rosy glow of sunset painted the buildings， green tress and the squares into the same color. A beard old man took the hand of a little girl， strolling around and they were like the sun was leading the beautiful moon.
The little girl asked： “Grandpa， it was said that only dead man has such a huge statue， is he dead？ ”
“No， he lives for ever.”
“But why didn’t he step down with his horse from the base？”
“If he stepped down， he would melt among us.”
“But why？”
The old man didn’t respond， for a while. Then he talked： “Look， didn’t the sun melt among stars？ It was the light and heat of numberless stars that made it.”
Puckering her lips the little girl denied： “No， it was the sun rays lit up stars.”
The old man smiled and later he said peacefully： “True， the sun was made by numberless stars， and then it lit up stars.”
Manas stood still， silent and expressionless， and gave no response at all. He had already deposited a great and heroic legend in the deepest heart of the nation. The legend itself is an endless topic and research subject among people.
And he just stands here in silence， listening...
To the Flower Girl on the Square
Green eyes， blonde hair， fair skin and rosy cheeks---you， yourself are a fresh flower in full bloom， which made the flowers on the square， in the shops or in greenhouse unnecessary.
The fragrance was not from those blooming colorful flowers， but from your noble grace， endearing charm， sweet smile and kind-heartedness. Wearing a patterned scarf on head and dressed in beautiful “Brachi”， you were standing gracefully beside flowers. I could immediately smell the fragrance from the Russian culture---it was a sweet flavor wafted from teapot in cabinet of white birch forests； it was an attractive aroma from toasted bread and yogurt from delicately carved wood bowls and spoons on tablecloth； it was the scent from the black soil on which cheerful and humorous Russian girls were dancing； it was the fragrance emanated from the poems Wild Roses in Blossom of Akhmatova and from the serenade Moscow Nights. I felt the colorfulness and beauty of a nation’s soul as well as its passion and hope for life.
In my sight the city was in a clear morning： clean streets， bright green trees， bustling traffic and crowd； and flowers in people’s hands were blooming like the spreading smile on face； all of these looked so vivid and charming...
Love for beauty is in everyone’s heart； wishes represented by flowers are beautiful and pure. In this city， no matter what it is， meeting and greetings on stations or ports， dating by the flowers and under the moon， family gathering， celebrating of new house or new born or mourning in funeral or visiting in a ward， the whole life is accompanied with blooming flowers and filled with its fragrance. It was out of my expectation that， flowers could even play such an important role in the social life of a nation and provide so much energy in its spiritual life.
In Bishkek I was once moved and pleased by many things： I like people reading attentively in subway cars； I enjoy the harmony and love reflected on squares， beaches and grasslands when people are playing with seagulls and pigeons； I appreciate the sincerity when people were standing before monuments or in the Martyrs’ Cemetery； and what’s more I was touched by the gentlemanship of “lady first” naturally behaved on any occasion. I found all of these from the fragrance of flowers. I understand them from their love for beautiful flowers. I could also understand their devotion for a lofty ideal.
Surely I understand you， the flower girl. Wherever the ship of society is， on sailing on peaceful ocean of sunny days or wallowing in a stormy sea， the reservation of kindness and love for beauty is the touch stone of the confidence and maturity of a society； it is the symbol of a deep culture. Because， love and beauty can express all happiness and melt away all misfortune. And you， the flower girl and your garden house are so much loved by people； isn’t a good example of the prosperity？
Though many beautiful girls went to Russia， you chose to stay here with a faith or ideal： to be an envoy of friendship and love， to fill the life with purity and fragrance. You enabled the charm of a nation to shine in the pursuit of beauty. It was like on beaches when tide ebbed， a beautiful shell on the golden sands， together with other various couches was decorating the colorful coastal life.
Every nation loves flower， and in every country there is flower girl while here I would like to appraise you， the flower girl in Bishkek. In this beautiful country with green trees and red flowers， you impressed me so deeply with your beauty， enthusiasm and sincerity， which made me think deeper about life， about this world and about friendship...
Actually to the best of my belief， you are the very most charming image of this city.
（Translated by Wang Yanlin）