Those who step toward the grave are sure to tread over dust underfoot. Facing the wind-swept fields,perplexed plowmwn taste the hardship of each step; a question mark formed by tears like straws in the whirlwind rotates in the emptiness of heaven and earth. There should not be just roughness in life . Blowing dust covers the way, inability to dash out from the scorched desert. Our people and her children ought not to be kept in the dark . Why must we stand in mire or plant our wishes in barren soil ? Child's magic markers Spring is over , yet you are still standing here. The wind faraway flaps in the torrential flow of time . Ah , .... The distant resonance. If only you had a child's magic marker , maybe all the remorse could be obliterated. Do you still remember that bridge ? The flowing water underneath twists and turns, drips and drips. Ah, .... Too loose is the net, so haggard as you , still walting. Two color markers, not used for weaving your fairy tales. One of them red as blood, the other white as snow. If you are pure-hearted, you can find love in eternity,then ,you can draw out prefect traces of your life, And your days of tears will be left in darkness forever thereafter. |