It is the season that all things germinate,
It is early cold spring,
A stone engraved with the truth, pure, and noble,
Be deserted in a corner of the sky,
Wandering aimlessly, rotating, revolving.
In spring, even the fallacy, absurdity, vulgar,
Also unceasingly germinate, like lichens,
And cover the deserted stone.
Occasionally, some sober poets, like cleaners,
Try to push aside lichens.
But lichens are too much, too crazy to be pushed aside,
Only sighs, helpless struggles are left.
Sighs, helpless struggles are left,
I'm already close to your heart.
The words engraved on the stone,
How many people do need to know it?
Let it be covered with lichens,
After all, the awake poets are gradually dying.