When the summer cicada chirps over the window sill
I always have the illusion that the next second you will push open the creaking door of the library
Write the unsent date on the back of your library card
Like migratory birds stubbornly marking the long-migrated south
They say time will smooth out all the scratches
But before every rainy season comes
I can still hear the veins in the sycamore leaves
Our unfinished arguments are sprouting
I didn't understand until today
It made my heart beat faster that year
Maybe it's not the hot wind in midsummer
But when you turn around
The corners of clothes are lifted up
A small piece of dusk that never sets
Intention: Man is born free, but he is always in chains