作者：小羊冰冰
『我正在步行街上演奏二胡渭水秋歌，旁边走来了一位德国女人，久久地伫立在那里，一动不动地看着二胡。 我闭上眼，终于将这一个片段拉完了。』
我从小在大西北长大，每逢过年的时候，乡政府都要组织秦剧团来村子中央的舞台上唱秦腔，一唱就是好几天，每一场都是人山人海。我是小孩子，个子小，身体灵活，在大人们的胳肢窝底下一钻就进去，一直挤到舞台的前面。
过年正是农闲的时节，村民们没有别的娱乐项目。听说有秦剧团来，个个都争先恐后，早早的拿着小板凳赶到露天剧场，坐在了舞台的前面。更多的人则包围在广场的周围。台上的演员看到这阵势，都卯足了劲，唱的特别卖力。我挤在舞台的前沿，在刺眼的阳光下，可以清晰地看到每一个演员的妆容。那红的，黑的，白的，粉的妆容，被汗水打湿了，形成了一道道的彩沟，挂在演员的脸上。唱到动情之处，台上泪洒舞台，台下哽咽声一片。
有一天夜里唱秦腔，由于人多，我和妈妈不小心被人群挤散了。妈妈手里举着凳子，大声的呼唤我的名字，却始终找不到我。她就焦急地从人群当中穿进去，里面没有我，又从人群当中穿出来。这一进一出，凳子举在肩上，碰到几个观众的头，有的人大声叫骂，有的人则哈哈大笑，夸张地喊道： “快躲开，三叉戟来了。” 为了看秦腔，妈妈丢掉了她心爱的一把椅子，至今想起来都觉得可惜。
我渐渐的长大，对秦腔有了自己的认识。秦腔是发自西北人内心的呐喊，粗犷而悲壮，苍凉而婉转。秦腔如同西北的民风，热烈，直率，执着而饱含深情。
英文翻译版：
An Autumn Melody by the Wei River
Author: Bing Bing Weidemann
I was performing "Autumn Melody of the Wei River" on my erhu along a bustling pedestrian street when a German woman approached. She stood motionless, captivated by the instrument. With my eyes closed, I drew the final notes to a close.
I grew up in the vast northwest of China. Every New Year, the township government would organize a Qinqiang opera troupe to perform in the village's central square, staging shows for several consecutive days. Each performance drew massive crowds. As a child, small and nimble, I would weave through the adults, slipping under their arms to reach the front of the stage.
The New Year coincided with the agricultural off-season, leaving villagers with few entertainment options. News of the opera troupe's arrival would spread quickly, prompting everyone to rush over with small stools to secure spots near the stage. Many more surrounded the square. The performers, energized by the enthusiastic audience, sang with fervor. From my vantage point at the front, under the glaring sun, I could clearly see each actor's makeup—reds, blacks, whites, and pinks—smeared by sweat into colorful streaks on their faces. At poignant moments, tears flowed on stage, echoed by sobs from the audience.
One evening, during a Qinqiang performance, my mother and I were separated by the crowd. Holding a stool above her head, she called my name loudly, searching in vain. She pushed through the throng, entering and exiting repeatedly. The stool occasionally bumped into other spectators, eliciting both complaints and laughter. In her quest to watch the opera, my mother lost her cherished stool—a loss she still laments to this day.
As I grew older, I developed my own understanding of Qinqiang. It is a heartfelt cry from the souls of northwestern people—bold and tragic, desolate yet melodious. Qinqiang mirrors the spirit of the northwest: passionate, straightforward, persistent, and deeply emotional.
