I don't trust archaeologists.
Thousands of years later,
On the uninhabited seaside,
On the ruins of once prosperity;
Pick up a dead bone;
When my bones are dry,
Can he know this dead bone?
Has it ever been burned by the flames of the twentieth century?
Who can be in the class;
Find;
People who have suffered a lot;
Where are the victims' tears?
Those tears;
Was once banned in a 1,000-pound iron fence,
There is only one key;
You can open the doors of those bars,
To seize countless brave keys;
But they all fell dead;
The guardian's sword fell;
If you can pick up a tear like that;
Next to the pillow in Tibet;
Be a pearl at the bottom of the sea;
More crystal clear, more crystal clear;
And shine through the ages
Aren't we?
Is in their own time;
Was he crucified?
And this cross;
Never more than the nail of Nazareth;
Less pain.
The enemy's hand;
Crowned us with thorns;
From the punctured pale forehead;
Deep red blood dripped down,
Never finished writing;
All the grief in our chests!
Admittedly;
We shouldn't expect anything,
I only hope that one day;
People will think of us,
Like those who think of ancient times;
Ancestors who struggled with behemoths,
One will float on the face;
A calm and stretched smile
Although it's too easy,
But I am willing;
Die for that smile!
1May 8, 937