Every day and night, the endless streams of the Qiantang River wind around the small village of Niujia and flow eastwards towards the sea. Along the riverbank lean ten black cypress trees, their leaves seeming to burn red in the annual August season. Adding to the dreariness of the scene are the weeds surrounding the trees that have just started to yellow under the last evening rays. Two large pine trees shade a group of men, women, and children villagers listening intently to the words of an elderly man. The man speaking was about 50 years old, wearing a once-green robe that had long since faded into an ashy blue. But listen! After several clacks of his rosewood boards, the stick in his right hand struck a beat on a double-skinned drum. He sang, "Flowering trees lacking masters, Boundless crops feeding crows, Broken walls around a dried-up well, This place was always our home." The man who was speaking clacked his wood boards again a few fews times, then spoke.