Traces of God

Under the ancient bronze bell, the missionaries still muttered legends from the age of gods; The night has already ridden its dragon; the morning star, the herald of dawn, has illuminated the sky; ghosts are rushing back to the funeral palace in all directions: and the ghosts of the violent death will always hold a grudge, and there are clusters of their white bones in the water beside the road. For fear that the day will reveal their ugly appearance, they have long gone to sleep in heavy springs, accompanied by maggots; they will never be exposed to the warmth of the sun, and can only hang on the miserable wind in the dark field every night.