又见葵，于转角的花圃中。三角形的一角，廖廖数只。

      我未曾见过它们成长中的模样，只是路过它们风景的一位行人。来去匆匆。

 
      有几朵的花瓣已经掉了一些了，看起来有些苍凉。阳光并没有给予它们希望，除了灼烧还是灼烧。我伫立在楼群的一方阴影中，看花，看人。却没有碰上一位为它们驻足的人。心想：这花的主人是谁？

      我平生所见的葵花中，这是第三个。盖新房那会儿，也就是小学六年级那会儿。在那条不怎么惹人喜欢的河边有一排的向日葵。于是我便总喜欢绕着路走那里过，看那长的高大而矜持的花一眼。

 
      从未见过花的主人，时至今日，也没有了认为主人是雅兴之人的想法。但不论冲着什么而栽这花，花美则是种花人和赏花人都喜欢的。

 
      但我却并没有看到向日葵朝阳的景象。

 
      我看到的从来都是它们垂头或没有朝气的模样。

 
      Vincent的向日葵是美的，是给予着他的梦想的，却最终还是被折断了，在19世纪末那样一个年代里。我不知道人们是什么时候才注意到这个原本默默无闻的荷兰画家的，曾有一个作家为他写传，被一个美国经销商这样拒绝：“你怎么可以叫我花钱去出这样一本书给我们的美国读者读一个默默无闻的荷兰画家呢？”最后那本书被一个英国商人给接受了，他在接受时说：“希望它能给我带来至少不亏本的价。”事实没有让他失望，这本书后来被译成八种语言在世界各地流传。而Vincent的梦也逐渐被人们懂得，被人们瞻仰。可他那饱受煎熬的一生，怕是用多少也无法弥补的吧。

 
      我并不想说比起Vincent，我们是幸福的。

 
      栽花之人盼着花开，于是用心栽花。盼着花美，仿佛自己脸上就会有光彩，于是用心呵护。对于他而言，花是一个装饰物，只是让他脸上有光的物品罢了。

 
      于是花不再是花，不被赋予信仰，希冀，美好。栽花人以为，花的美是对他付出的报答，是理所当然。待到花枯时，连最后也是凄凉。

 
      我不解葵为何要选在夏天开花，它不比睡莲，有柔水呵护，它不敌昙花，有夜色眷顾。它只能在天亮时昂头，等待阳光，午时阳光猛烈，它却还要驻守，它那一份美丽。我不解是什么支持着它，对阳光，对夏天的钟爱。即使知道命运的最终，它日夜守侯的阳光并不会给它永久，反而会焦灼了它的体肤，让它腐朽在黑色的泥土里。

 
      这不是飞蛾对灯火的追求。这是无法逃脱的命运。

 
      烈日下一大片的葵花，垂头无奈。它们饥渴，但无法得到水，它们愤怒，但无法离开。这片土地紧紧地抓着它，哪怕最后剩下的是一片腐朽的尸体。

 
      我想，我又遇到了葵，这是第四次，却是同样的命运。

《Vincent》

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land

Now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps, they'll listen now

Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue
Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand

Now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps, they'll listen now
For they could not love you
And still your love was true
And when no hope was left inside
on that starry, starry night
You took your life as lovers often do
But I could have told you, Vincent
This world was never meant
for one as beautiful as you
Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty hall
Frameless heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget
Like the strangers that you've met
The ragged man in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow

Now I think I know what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
Then how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they're not listening still