镰锤主义

                  
夏天的飞鸟,飞到我的窗前唱歌,又飞去了。            
秋天的黄叶,它们没有什么可唱,只叹息一声,飞落在那里。     
Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away.
And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall
there with a sign.
                                  
世界上的一队小小的漂泊者呀,请留下你们的足印在我的文字里。   
O Troupe of little vagrants of the world, leave your footprints in my words.
               

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