Summer Holiday

    When the sun shouts and people abound¹

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

    bronze

    And the iron age； iron the unstable² metal；

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

    ered-up cities

    Will be stains of rust³ on mounds⁴ 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……