On the edge of the village
The place where the wind passes most easily
Children playing in the breeze
Standing in the water
Holding a spinning little paper windmill.
The flame of children, this pure music
Empty bottles around the sky in spring
Their cries and joy are intertwined.
Countless handsome knots
Lose the sky
Children who play with the wind are poor.
They put insects and dirt into the stream.
Or corn stalks as toys.
A group of trees were moved to silence.
More upright
Children playing in the breeze
Draw a cool and sacred shadow
Irrigation ballad
Let the mountains shake.
Notes of the wind
As green as a lotus leaf and as bright as fire.
Play.
The sun shines directly through the glass window on every table.
Look for milk cup lids, straws and dried bread crumbs.
Music strode forward, challenging the sun,
Chalk dust mixes memory and desire.
My lesson plan says: Teachers can play.
Beethoven's fifth concerto,
Students can express themselves freely in their compositions.
On their own. There is a human: "Can we make this up?"
As soon as I played the record, all of a sudden
The loud voice silenced them;
More and more expensive, more and more determined, every authoritative voice.
Inflate the classroom as tight as a tire,
Behind each pair of wide-eyed eyes
Give play to its unique advantages. soon
They forgot me. The pen is busy,
The mouth simulates the freedom to break into the arms.
Words. Sweet silence.
I saw it blooming on my lost face.
A new look. The music is tight like a trap at this time.
They slipped and fell unconsciously.