Childhood streams hit rocks,
Make a jumping sound,
The coolness flashes.
The stream of childhood is full of handmade boats.
Full of laughter and stupid dreams,
Floating in the pond under Liu Yin.
Lotus, lotus,
Little hands slapping frogs,
Little feet chase dragonfly wings,
Over the wind-blown grass,
Through the ripples caused by fish,
Capture childhood happiness with insect-proof nets.
The spring breeze of childhood shook the poplars,
Drift away the cold of melting snow,
Listen to the bark of twigs.
Little drops of childhood condensed the figure of home,
There are grandpa's tobacco pouch, grandma's apron, dad's cloth shoes and mom's oil umbrella.
Sometimes my little hand is flashing the smoke ring that grandpa spit out.
Watch it fly to the clouds in the sky.
Sometimes my head sticks into grandma's apron,
Smell the sweetness of dough fermentation.
Sometimes I feel sleepy on my father's shoulder.
Shake it with the cloth shoes on dad's feet ...
Sometimes in my sleep, I see my mother holding an oil umbrella on her head.
I seem to hear my mother's kind call.
The pond of childhood reflects the color of autumn,
Stir up the splash of white fish,
Immersed in the tranquility of the fallen poplar trunk.
When I was a child, I heard suona music coming from the direction of the village.
I know in my heart that it is the sad voice played by people to bid farewell to their dead grandfather.
I want to go, but I don't want to go.
I know it's sad,
So I ran to the pond,
Holding the fishing line and knife that grandpa made for me,
Catch white fish in the pond and make a loud willow whistle.
But unconsciously stood on tiptoe and looked at the village,
Wipe away tears with small hands.
The pulley of childhood turns the passage of time,
I lost my knife and fishing line in my pocket.
Full of uneasy questions and colorful imagination,
Through the branches of poplars,
Through the silver cobwebs,
On the five-line music of white fish jumping happily,
Blow a loud willow whistle,
Fly over the sunflower color.
On a winter morning with white fog,
When I grow up, I hold my mother's hand.
Walking in Kaminooji in my father's dress,
And say
I am old enough to go to school by myself.
Mom and dad are standing at the crossroads.
And I walked along the deep rut of the cart into the white fog in winter ahead.
The silver bell of the carriage rang in the white fog,
Footsteps creaking in the snow. ...