一具死尸,横躺在天地之间,被亘古不变的太阳照耀着,一具时时刻刻腐烂着的死尸。对于他,诗为何物?这个问题让我痛苦。虽然他微睁着双眼,但已经什么也看不见。对于他,诗为何物?无数白蛆从他的鼻孔里爬出。对于他,诗为何物?他的阳具徒然下垂,已经气力丧尽。对于他,诗为何物?他沉默着,已经永远不再回答。无论怎样美丽的挽歌,也不再属于他。现在,诗歌对于他已什么都不是。因此,面对他的我也不再是诗 A dead body, lying between heaven and earth, is shined by the everlasting sun, a rotten body of death. For him, what is poetry? This question makes me suffer. Although he is slightly open his eyes, but can not see anything. For him, what is poetry? Numerous white maggots crawl out of his nostrils. For him, what is the poem? His penis droops in vain and has been exhausted. For him, what is the poem? He is silent, he will never answer again. No matter how beautiful elegy, no longer belong to him. Now, poetry has nothing for him. Therefore, I face him no longer poetry