I have long forgottenThe wound in my heartThe wind has passed byLeaving only a wall of silenceThe scab and callusHardens and thickensPainless and itchlessLike a wall, like a stone, like an ancient monumentYouth is like the scenery outside the window that keeps recedingLike the sound traces that the needle rolls over and rotates repeatedlyThat day the spring breeze passed byThe scent of grass after the rain gently slid across the fingertipsThe knight with a knife appeared on the street cornerSteady stepsThe sword light tumbled and the knife shadow was like a flowerWho will break the wasteland in my heartWho will cut open the silent nightThe scar that has never crackedBegins to trembleLike a whispered poem flying out of the darknessLittle by little, inch by inchFlowing outBlood dyed red Dust also dyes this silent dusk redIf this injury is a poem from a previous life, I wish to get drunk again in thousands of cups and glassesThere will be a time to ride the wind and wavesI use blood as inkWhat I wrote is justA poem that no one can take awayThe blood drips quietlyDyeing the dust redAlso dyeing this silent dusk red