Some shacks,
Some old tables and chairs.
But usually a song is not finished,
Then a song started again.
Until today,
This song is still singing,
I just can't see you.
It's not what it used to be,
This kind of singing,
Ten thousand kinds of laughter,
Who treasures it?
Passing by,
It's a long way,
Who pity the prodigal son?
If you want to make a color book without paper,
Crush the broken pen.
How many things,
Has become a dream,
What are you talking about?
Less wood, no rice;
A bedroll,
A bundle of broken books,
Just trying to keep quiet.