On the old tree outside my grandmother's house, cicadas are singing, as if telling my wonderful childhood and singing the sunset.
That summer, I enjoyed the cool under the old tree.
The birds in the tree also sing for me. The friends walked around grandma hand in hand.
The old man was overjoyed. Another summer, the old tree was cut down.
Grandma also left the child. Friends are busy every day, circling around life.
But I'll never get back to that wonderful childhood.
The tree at the entrance of the village now, which used to be the cicada, also bothers me.
It's hard to sleep at night. I have grown up, but I will always miss that summer.