On a rainy night, listening to the rain, music, poetry, and Zen... I have just returned from my hometown after a long journey, feeling very tired. I just want to rest quietly for a while... When I woke up, it was already evening, and I didn't know when it had started raining. Gazing at the night rain outside the window and listening quietly, you would feel that everything in the rain seems to be imbued with a clear and profound spiritual charm, which can be appreciated, understood, and listened to. It is summer night, and I like to listen to the rain tapping on new lotus leaves and the clear sound of water dripping into the pond under the rhythm of rain, as well as the clattering sound of tiles and cobblestones, the murmuring whispers of the branches of parasol trees and poplar leaves outside the window, and the drifting and distant croaking of frogs by the riverbank on the opposite side... Gazing at the night rain, I couldn't help but think: if time could rewind to a certain moment in ancient times, would there be a scholar like me who, wearing clothes and holding a book, quietly lit a solitary dim lamp, expanding his vision wherever possible, yet focused on listening to the continuous rain against the cold window, with a distant heart and wandering soul? The night rain can fall like large and small pearls dropping onto a jade plate, lively and clear like the knocking of se瑟s and bells; it can also pour down rapidly like a zither's vigorous sound, resonating with the heroic spirit of soldiers galloping on horseback beyond the frontier; it can be clear and profound, high and lonely, like pressing the strings of a guqin or zheng, gently narrating legends and emotions akin to "High Mountain Flowing Water" or "Three Variations of Plum Blossoms"; it can be sparse, long-lasting, and low-pitched, like playing xiao or xun flutes, resembling bashful yet heartfelt secrets and parting sorrows, lightly pressing this thread, then letting it rise again and again... Under the glow of the lamp amidst this rain, familiar and distant images sketch out in my mind: it seems I see Li Yishan smiling and tenderly painting "Sharing the Western Window Candle" under the wooden window where autumn rain trickles in Bashan; it seems I see Lu You leisurely listening to the night rain and idly dividing tea in a small building during spring drizzle; it seems I see Su Dongpo transcending worldly concerns and singing songs while walking in the rain under the chilly wind and rain... In the night rain, you can't help but imagine which immortal poet, or a high monk with a pure heart observing the Tao, has seen through the fleeting passage of thousands of years, the vicissitudes of the world, and the impermanence of human affairs, comprehending too much glory and failure, warmth and sorrow, all becoming calm, clear, and released, thus chanting such recurring transcendental clarity and serene unperturbed Buddhist chants... Scooping up a handful of cool spring water, gently wiping away the dust and distractions of the heart and the vanity of the world, restoring life to its original nature and authenticity. Following the Zen words and softly reciting: drink the light and distant tea, smile and pick a lotus flower for yourself... At this moment, the night rain is gracefully dancing on the green tiles and railings by the window, drop by drop, sound by sound, turning into a gentle and virtuous woman in a flicker, continuing to chant stories that have drifted for thousands of years, slowly recounting the unwavering sincerity that lasts for ten thousand years... I am extremely fond of this rain, for only in the rain does it possess an unusual tranquility and antiquity, a clear and peaceful serenity that soothes the heart. Watching the mountains in the rain and listening to the rain in the mountains, truly and vaguely, empty and clear, drizzling continuously... Listening to the rain alone before the lamp, silently meditating, the sound of wind and rain outside the door is not a place without sorrow to express, so why must it drip until dawn?