It is the thief running on the roof,
Six colours he has stolen,
And the red hour hand of the clock
Pointing to the paradise of four o'clock.
Explosion of the four o'clock,
Inside the brain of a cock,
There is a craziness of four o'clock.
It is a tree, hostility linger,
On the other side of the border,
Promises it releases,
That flock of wolves, swallow the morrows.
It is the mirror, remembers the bodies well,
King of the memories,
It is the flames of the discussion
Of the wax-made tongues.
It is the myth-reared flowers and plants,
It is the steam-drived locomotive
Broken into the church.
It is the death of a singer,
The night of his death
Is pressed into a record in black,
Singing, singing and singing.
(translated by oswald poem午夜歌手by Bei Dao)