<><BR>the library</P>
<><BR>penetrating through the wind snow, what rigid souls!<BR>they open the mouth to speak, confess or love<BR>the emotion in my senile and exhausted heart<BR>turn alive again in the corner of its building </P>
<><BR>these years <BR>i've been used to the labels with their names<BR>but actually never know <BR>the darkness like rock they had experienced<BR>at 12 o'clock in the midnight<BR>suddenly i recall a pair of cold eyes<BR>passing through the library</P>
<P><BR>what kind of light <BR>they will shed in the darkness:<BR>they exiled or sacrificed themselves <BR>against the old and klunky time<BR>they were the witnesses of their own age<BR>now you've been unable to pour the enthusiasm<BR>of your whole life into reading those souls <BR>which once let you fevered so much</P>
<P><BR>the world now starts to forget them, in the library<BR>you open the registration book, reading alone<BR>people have been used to harmonious festival <BR>and flourish situation<BR>they will no longer feel the trembling from the inner </P>
<P><BR>in the coughs of bureaucrats and <BR>yielding songs of actresses<BR>who will stop to listen attentively <BR>to the sobs of those being wrongfully treated<BR>they stand in front of the bookshelf with chilly air<BR>whether only the detonation sound <BR>would awaken the ear?</P>
<P><BR>it is 12 o'clock in the midnight<BR>i pass through the library<BR>the snowflakes faraway can not explain my silence<BR>the lamps nearby are unwilling to reveal the Time tragedy<BR>only the cold eyes dive into the bare darkness deep</P>