What is it that gives a young man the strength, gives him the courage to stand up in front of a column of tanks right there in front of the front of the world. And I'll tell you, it was very moving because all of us have seen the bravery and the determination of the students and the workers, seeing their commitment to peaceful protest. And that image I think is going to be with us for a long time. 15 years ago, a massacre took place at Daybreak. I died that then was reborn. 15 years have passed. Daybreak Bayonets died red, is still a blade fixed in the eyes. 15 years have passed. I still have nightmares of those departed souls. I see them soaked with blood. I write each stroke, each line, as an outpouring of the tomb. 15 years have passed. Within the darkness of vanished freedom, I wait for the hour hand to point Predon's advent of the 15th anniversary offering. Tonight, in this city without altar, I hope the dead souls can see my eyes and turn my watchful gaze into the flicker of a candle flame. Not the sacrificial spirit money for the ancestors. Not the raging blaze that illuminates the cold night. But memory's nakedness is like a bone that will not decay. 15 years ago, martial law troops besieged the square. The military broadcast the order over and over. A continuous transmission of gunshots and bloodthirsty news. A few hours before, the gathering crowds, the clamoring crowds. Then and a blink, the light was extinguished. People fled like a surge of quicksilver, leaving behind an empty void. Among the hunger strike tents on the monument, I gathered with the students and local residents. These gunshots rang out. Bullets struck the monument. Sparks sprayed off the marble. I released an eye-flooding flash, broken automatic rifle in half. Though I can't break open the silence of the dark night. Facing an unpredictable fate, I stared dumbly into the darkness. Unable to discern if the starlight abyss is hell or paradise. 15 years have passed. Unexpected bloodshed has suffocated me. Unexpected prisons have hardened me. I've become a thick stone, yield to the lashings of political terrors, expression hardened, frozen, always unchanged. From the massacre's bloodshed to harsh surveillance, the horrors of that night have yet to move half a pace away. After the house raid, then handcuffs. After handcuffs, then prison. After prison, then the police sentry at my building's gate. A personal shadow interrogates our house guests. Fones tapped, male vetted. All forms of communication cut off. Let me turn into a blind and deaf man in the dark, dark night to resist the silence. Walls for cell may confine the body, but no cell walls can restrain the soul. 15 years have passed. A murderer's regime forces one to desperation. A nation that tolerates a murderous regime and forgets the killed forces one to deeper desperation. A survivor of the massacre, powerless to demand justice for the victims, forces one to the deepest desperation. But in such desperation, remembering the departed spirits is the only hope left. Let the darkness transform into rock across the wilderness of my memory.