in the forest of snowy beech
i walk in nights
i am sad
give ur hand,where is ur hand?
is it country or stars
or my youthness what is more faraway
between the beeches
a window which is yellow and warm
while i am passing by there,somone
he shall say 'uncle,come in'
coming in from downstairs,he shall greet
to poeple inside
in my seven hilled city
i have left my rosebud
neither is it shame being afraid of dying
nor thinking dying