Candlelight is ringing in front of my desk, and I watch the shadow of the moon hanging on the western wall. Tao Li teaches great love, but there are still many feelings on the podium.
The apricot altar has been plowed without leaving any trace, and the seedlings have been watered to cultivate new branches. Paving the road is diligent, smiling at koi fish and yue longmen.
Spend the autumn and spring hard, and the flowers will bloom and the morning will be embroidered. Be careful that the nursing period is rich, and you can recite the words of thanks at will.
I still listened to the sound of books yesterday, but today my temples are soaked in autumn frost. Who leads the way in the vast sea? Who watered the young trees into pillars?
Remember the teacher on Teacher's Day and thank the branches that were cut down that year. Now, I am old and upright, and I have written poems all my life.
Step off the podium smartly, and step into the downtown dusty. At the end of the sunset alley, there are still people singing to the sky.
Teacher, you are like a touch of warm sunshine in winter. Bring a glimmer of life to the grass under the snow and ice. Teacher, you are like a lighthouse in the dark. Illuminate the moving ship.
Teacher, your hand is like a big umbrella. The back of your hand blocks all the wind and frost for us. Your palm is releasing a steady stream of warmth for us. "Silkworms will weave until they die in spring, and candles will drain the wick every night." Teacher, you have inspired us with your life.