The sound of the bell goes deep into the Autumn's hinterland,
Skirts fall in droves on the tree tops,
Pleasing the sky.
I can see the process the apple goes roten.
The violence inclined children
Evaporate like the dark fume.
The bricks of the house moistened.
The ten miles storm has got its tireless master.
The soundless bell striker,
The spreaded out time curtain
Broken in pieces, drifting all over the sky.
Succession of days strike each other, non-stop.
The ship goes landed,
Sliding on the heavy snow.
A sheep is staring at the distant place.
Its empty eye-sight looks like in peace
Everything is being given a new name,
The ears of this world
Maintaining a balance of danger.
This is a bell toll of dead.
(translated from poem 鐘聲by Bei Dao)