At the midnight wine drinking,
The flame of truth went insane,
Is there anyone who is homeless?
Why the windows are hanging high?
You are tired of dead,
The road is tired of live.
In that flame-red era,
People moved in nights and slept on days,
Chessing with the nationalism.
Not even that,
The people who dug your sleep,
The morning tired of you,
The clear mirror tired of words.
Thinking a bit of love,
You looked like a warrior,
The mosy sky rocking and earth shaking is what
You spoke to yourself,
Translated by oswald, poem 明鏡by Bei Dao)