When I sat in room, and quietly bent myself on writing alone I could hear surge approaching as if the autumn in the air came desolating all. When I inquired the room, it was yet mute around. I kept seated, while that sound was still rolling near and surely to drown me.
The running of time, ever grows new lives batch by batch from nothing， And then like a bulldozer it will surely level them off one by one till no trace. The sage asked: who will be the victor?
I always lay restless, to feel a waving, From below the haunch as far as the backbone, As though the Earth’s crust suddenly turned into a melted candy. Crises lurking everywhere.
As an anonymous among pedestrians I frequently met them by once-a-life chance And no one was impressive, but I only admired you, Men and women who were shouldering bags of flour, and queuing in line To enjoy the sun’s product that could feed your stomachs, As if you were facing a golden wheat field. All men, right in such a way take the piety of believers And also take the sadness of conquers. Wise compromise and honorable withdrawal both cannot avail. Being men, means being stereotyped, But tonight I am still a bird at large.
