In the scene of my vision: a boy,
Come in money
The moonlight wind blowing all the way
I open my bright eyes
mute
The tip of my tongue was ironed and curled up gently in the corner
Give hearing to the soulless pupils and sensitive fingertips
caught in the wind
golden light,
wind
sudden traces
The warm, cold rocks on the black lake in my heart
bloom one
Yincan's spirit and soul!
I said: I am a drop of morning dew, I am a fiber grass
Me! Not a rose!