All the people in this city hold all kinds of knives. Long, short, big or small, no matter what kind, all of them in the sun sharply shine, colliding with each other making sharp noises.
He is the only one here that holds a heart, in this city where all the people that he can see holds knives. He raises this heart which naturally already has been wounded and cut all over for a thousand times with blood dying his snow-white clothes and face red, but he never thinks to put it away. Though it hurts.
He is waiting for another heart.
In this forest of only swords and knives he waits for another heart that may not exist at all. He waits, every day a brand new wound and repeated strong pain come in a throng. He waits.
这个城市里所有的人都举着各种各样的刀子，长的短的大的小的，无论什么样的，无一不在阳光下尖锐地闪着光，彼此碰撞着发出尖锐的声响。他是这里唯一一个举着一颗心的人，在这个所见人们都举刀子的城市里他举着的这颗心自然已经千疮百孔染红了他雪白的衣衫和脸庞，可是他从来没想过把它收起来。尽管很痛。
因为他等待着另一颗心。在这个刀剑的森林里他等待着另一颗可能并不存在的心。
他等待着，每天每刻崭新的伤口和重复的剧痛接踵而至。可是他等待着。
He is the only one here that holds a heart, in this city where all the people that he can see holds knives. He raises this heart which naturally already has been wounded and cut all over for a thousand times with blood dying his snow-white clothes and face red, but he never thinks to put it away. Though it hurts.
He is waiting for another heart.
In this forest of only swords and knives he waits for another heart that may not exist at all. He waits, every day a brand new wound and repeated strong pain come in a throng. He waits.
这个城市里所有的人都举着各种各样的刀子，长的短的大的小的，无论什么样的，无一不在阳光下尖锐地闪着光，彼此碰撞着发出尖锐的声响。他是这里唯一一个举着一颗心的人，在这个所见人们都举刀子的城市里他举着的这颗心自然已经千疮百孔染红了他雪白的衣衫和脸庞，可是他从来没想过把它收起来。尽管很痛。
因为他等待着另一颗心。在这个刀剑的森林里他等待着另一颗可能并不存在的心。
他等待着，每天每刻崭新的伤口和重复的剧痛接踵而至。可是他等待着。
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