Tongqin—Tibetan Buddhist long horn скачать в хорошем качестве

Tongqin—Tibetan Buddhist long horn

Tongqin is the oldest whisper of the snowy land, and the trembling thunder in the chest of the mountains. When it starts, the sound surges from the depths of the earth veins. At first, it is the whimper of the wind passing through the cracks of the wilderness, and gradually turns into a deep roar like an avalanche. The low sound waves hover over the Mani pile, shaking off the frost on the prayer flags and startling the circling eagles. The sound is not like a human instrument, but rather like the wrinkled crust of the Himalayas chanting mantras. A long cry makes time collapse into a vortex: ancient sacrifices, the roar of war horses, and the panting of pilgrims all vibrate and resonate in the sound waves. The most moving is the Tongqin in the twilight. The setting sun dyes the bronze into purple gold, and the trumpet sound drags a long tail rhyme over the white tower. At this moment, it is no longer just a magic instrument, but a bridge of sound between heaven and earth: connecting the clearness of the eagle flute and the desolation of the conch, balancing the high and low frequencies of life and death, and ultimately allowing all living beings to hear the synchronous vibration of their own heartbeats and the pulse of the earth at the deepest part of the scale. **When the bronze horn sounded, the wind of the previous life passed through the ribs and planted stars in the chest. ** The low horn sounds wandered along the earth veins, like a bunch of rusty keys, knocking on the memory box sealed deep in the rock layer. The pilgrims stopped suddenly and heard the faint light of butter lamps emerging from the abyss of bronze vibrations - someone had knelt in the same twilight to polish the horn body, and the copper green of the fingertips penetrated into the palm lines, turning into a mole on the palm of the next life; someone forged the unfulfilled oath into the gilded horn mouth, so every escaping sound wave was wrapped in the old moonlight and the unfading Gesang petals. **The three-meter bronze body is a vertical river, flowing with all the souls looking for their way home. ** The breath of the monks swirls in the horn pipe, and the present life of the blower and the past life of the listener are intertwined in the sound stream. A caravan of yaks carrying salt emerges from the soundprints, the bells resonating with the trumpet sounds; the laughter of a dying child is clear, riding on the bass to trace back to the mother's womb; the aging eagle folds its wings for the last time, and the sound of its bones breaking is perfectly matched with the ending of the bronze qin... It turns out that there is no break between life and death, and all memories are curled up into bronze spirals, waiting to be awakened by a certain tremor. The flame of the butter lamp sways in the sound waves, reflecting this moment into transparent amber. When the trumpet sound reaches its thickest point, the wind and snow suddenly become silent - people see their faces reflected on the gilded mouth of the bronze qin, overlapping with thousands of familiar faces. Those undried tears, unspoken promises, and unfinished mountain circumambulation roads are all revealed in the resonance of bronze. Only now do I understand that the so-called afterlife is not the blooming of the other shore flowers, but all the unburned thoughts in this life, which are cast into bronze qins and blown again by another pair of hands on a snowy morning. **Until the sound of the trumpet stops, the aftereffects are still growing in the bones. ** On the latest stone piece added to the Mani pile, someone carved the six-character mantra, but they didn’t know that the concave and convex patterns were the solidified forms of the Tongqin sound waves on the stone surface of the afterlife.