Ouyang Yu
In Fifty Years
Many of these people, these youngsters in their early 20s, walking in front of my eyes, in all directions, crossing the street regardless of the rushing traffic, equally regardless of them even when they are walking on the zebra crossing, in a civilization that remains semi-savage, these young people, with vastly different faces that are basically the same, and names that must remain different no matter what, some of them already fallen in love, perhaps rightly, walking hand in hand, all with bags behind their backs, mostly of medium height, a few taller, a few others shorter, mostly average, not one, not a single one recognizable as having being taught by the eyes of the beholder, or the owner of the eyes watching and thinking, these people moving en masse, in close proximity, to each other, and with each other, before the university gate, in the piercing spring cold, near the approaching evening dark, will have died.