Summer Holiday

    When the sun shouts and people abound

    One thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of

    bronze

    And the iron age； iron the unstable metal；

    Steel made of iron， unstable as his mother； the tow-

    ered-up cities

    Will be stains of rust on mounds of plaster.

    Roots will not pierce the heaps for a time， kind rains

    will cure them，

    Then nothing will remain of the iron age

    And all these people but a thigh-bone or so， a poem

    Stuck in the world's thought， splinters of glass

    In the rubbish dumps， a concrete dam far off in the

    mountain……