It is winter now.
Outside, snow lies thickly on the ground, like a vast slab of carved white stone. The sky stretches high and clear, dotted with countless stars, while green ribbons of light dance across the heavens—the Northern Lights, beautiful as a fairy tale.
The wind is bitterly cold, stinging our faces like a knife. Snow clings to the trees, looking like coral or branches bursting with blossoms. The air is exceptionally pure; one breath makes you feel completely awake.
Snow keeps falling, blanketing roads, houses, fields, and streets, leaving everything so quiet it seems uninhabited.
Yet we sat indoors, gathered around the warm hearth, sharing tales of ancient times.
This is the story we heard—
The Ghost of a King Sitting Upon His Tomb
By the sea lay the ancient grave of a warrior. Upon the tomb sat a ghost—a king in life.
He wore armor, his hair blowing in the wind, a golden halo around his forehead. But his head was bowed, sighing, looking terribly sad, like a soul lost and unable to find its home.
Then a ship came ashore. The sailors disembarked to rest, among them a “singer”—not the kind who performs concerts today, but an ancient storyteller who composed heroic tales to sing for people.
The singer approached the ghost and asked, “Why are you so sorrowful?”
The ghost replied, “Because no one sings my story. The battles I fought, the decisions I made, the people I led… all forgotten. Without songs to pass on, no one remembers me. That’s why I cannot rest.”
The singer nodded, took out his lyre (an instrument like a guitar but much older), and began to play and sing.
He sang of the king’s youthful bravery, his strength in middle age, and the remarkable deeds he had accomplished throughout his life. The song was gentle yet powerful, like moonlight spilling across the sea.
As the ghost listened, light slowly returned to his face, and his body gradually glowed brighter. Finally, he drifted away like a beam of light—vanishing.
On the grave, only a small mound covered in grass remained, not even a stone with an inscription left behind.
But just as the last note of the harp sounded, a little bird flew out from the strings!
Its feathers were beautiful, its voice as clear as a thrush’s, and its song stirred homesickness, like the accent of a migratory bird returning in spring.It sang of heroes and of love, of the land and of the lives of the people.
This bird was the “Bird of Folk Songs.”
It flew over mountains, over fields, over forests, to every place where people lived.
It would never die. As long as people remembered the stories, it would keep singing.
This bird dwells within everyone’s memories
Now, we too hear its song—on this winter evening, within a warm house.
It sings not only of heroes, but also of love, of tender moments, of ordinary lives. It knows many old sayings, many verses, many words passed down by ancestors. These words, like secrets hidden beneath ancient stone tablets, come alive when spoken by its beak.
It reminds us—who we are, where we come from.
Long, long ago, in the age of warriors and pirates, this bird lived upon the poet’s harp.
Then came the age of knights, when might made right, and peasants were little better than dogs. Where could this bird hide then? No one cared for it, no one noticed.
But it did not vanish.
It flew to castle windows, watching noblewomen transcribe ancient tales onto parchment; it drifted to country cottages, listening to peddlers weave legends for peasant women; it perched beside children’s cradles, hearing mothers hum old lullabies to soothe their sleep.
As long as a single patch of earth remains where it can stand, this “bird of folk songs” will never vanish.
On the Night of the Blizzard, It Still Sings for Us
Now, outside, the wind and snow rage fiercely. The sky is pitch-black, and snow piles up like mountains, weighing down the entire city like an endless winter dream.
Yet the golden cross atop the church still gleams above the snowdrifts, under the blue sky, in the sunlight—a symbol of “faith.”
Above this “snow-buried city,” many birds fly, all singing.
First came the sparrows, chirping incessantly:
“We know this city! We know every household’s little secrets! Arguments at the front door, sneaking snacks at the back—we know it all! Those living inside, they’re always ‘chirp chirp chirp’!”
Then came the crows and big black birds, soaring over the snowy fields, calling as they flew:
“Caw! Caw! Food lies beneath the snow! Food matters most! Everyone thinks so—Right! Right! Right!”
Then the wild swans arrived. Their wings beat with a whoosh, singing of “great emotions”—those things that grow deep within the heart, that hope and courage which even snow cannot crush.
Their song sounded like a church organ, like the echoes of mythical mountains, like the chanting of the ancient poet Ossian, like the wind whistling as the warrior woman Valkyrie flew over the battlefield.
These sounds burrowed into our hearts, making our thoughts grow larger, farther-reaching, and gentler.
This was the song of the “birds of folk song.”
Just then, a warm breeze swept down from the heavens. The snow-capped mountains cracked open, and sunlight streamed through the fissures.
Spring was coming.
The birds returned. A new generation of people also returned—their hearts still carrying the voices of their ancestors, the songs of their homeland.
Listen—this is this year’s story:
The wind and snow will cease, the nightmares will end, the cold will depart.
But the song of that bird will never cease. It will revive all that is forgotten; it will make all that is dim shine anew; it will awaken all that slumbers.
This bird, in truth, dwells within our hearts
Do you know? This “folk song bird” is not a real bird.
It is—
The lullaby your mother hummed to put you to sleep,
The animated gestures of your grandfather as he told tales,
The old songs relatives sang together during the New Year,
The verses in textbooks that made your nose sting,
The expression on the old man’s face as he played the erhu at the street corner,
And that warm feeling in your heart when you first heard your hometown dialect.
It is the “telephone line” connecting us to our ancestors.
It relies not on cell phones, not on the internet, but on—
mouths passing it to ears,
ears passing it to hearts,
hearts passing it to the mouths of the next generation.
Even if war comes, cities are buried in snow, books are burned, people are driven away… as long as one person remembers a line of an old song, this bird lives on.
It fears neither violence, nor oblivion, nor time. It fears only one thing—that no one will sing it anymore.
So it keeps searching for “those willing to sing.”
It searches in castles, in thatched cottages, on ships, by the hearth—and now, it has found you.
The Truth Behind the Story
On the surface, this tale tells of a magical bird that flew from a harp, singing songs of heroes, love, and homeland. But in truth, it speaks of “how culture survives.”
Why does the king’s ghost suffer? Because he has been forgotten. Without songs, without stories, without being sung—a person truly “dies.”
That bird represents the “memory of the people.” It relies not on royal decrees, not on school textbooks, not on government propaganda. It relies on—the songs in ordinary people’s mouths, the emotions in their hearts, the habits in their lives.
It survives the darkest times because it hides in a mother’s lullaby, in a farmer’s casual chat, in a wandering minstrel’s tale.Quiet and unassuming, it neither strives nor competes, yet it outlasts swords, outendures palaces, and remains more deeply etched than kings.
That bird is the answer to “Who are we?”
What lesson does this story teach us?
Your roots lie not in skyscrapers or smartphones, but in the songs you heard as a child, the flavors you tasted, and the stories your elders told.
That “folk song bird” has always been by your side.
The tune your grandmother hummed while cooking soup—that’s it;
Your father recounting his mischievous childhood tales—that’s it;
Your hometown’s festival customs—that’s it;
The warmth that makes you smile when you hear your dialect—that is it.
Don’t underestimate these “old things.” They seem useless, unable to help you pass exams or make money. But when you feel lost, lonely, or homesick—it is these things that gently pat you on the back and whisper: “Don’t be afraid. You are not alone. Your ancestors share your blood and sing the same songs.”
So—
Please remember the songs your mother sang,
Please listen to the stories your grandfather told,
Please learn a phrase in your hometown dialect,
Please share the old legends you know with your children.
Because as long as you still sing, that bird will never fly away.
It will always be in your heart, softly singing for you—
“Who you are, where you come from, where you belong.”
