Now is the time to read books
But how to tackle such a task
How to carry your traditions
When every bird feels uneasy
And chroniclers of future times
Only mourn the fallen
It is the men and women who live
Who make history
The others will not count
The agony of unrequited love
And wasted life.
Does not concern
The lonely dogs of Fenyang.
They are only interested
In an invisible curtain of foretelling lyrics
And the vibrant stares
Of those who give life to darkness.
We need to conserve our dwindling
supply of  ideas.
When the black wings have passed beyond
Who will be left to read books?