——"Interlaced" No. 12 I am not lost in the morning wind The freshness of the style my joy is an abyss a scene The reed flute cannot make its sound Spring cannot bloom its colors It comes from the heart of a tender maiden Bigger flicker, more condensation it's a colorful shell On the beach there is the cultivation of its life The call of the sun and the moon, the softness of the water lines So the pearl shines dazzling brilliance There is a new voice in the silence rising curlingly, like wind and smoke from distant mountains Turn the eternal silence of the great thousand into the crimson of the thousands of trees

The mountains are prostrating, thousands of peaks are leaping The sound of Ding Ding in the deep valley suddenly stopped The lumberjack returns quietly time constraints disappear in a flash of light all the streets, turn to the dawn All windows open to the day sound up again arms raised and raised cover your ears in the dark Sentence someone, right behind his back Time blows the trumpet of judgment Snake's arms are imprinted The curse of death, tattooed man covered with shame Pulling up the plow, the dark dusk in Huainan The train turned over Where is the weeping sound of the sheng pipe?

I stand here, here is mine sentry post, a picture in the halo of fog Eternal picture, the magnificent river Flowing to the south, the bloody red of the ferry Sunshine, tree shadows, sword-backed Avengers stand up, oars picked up the silent flowers 1948