Bards are playing their Christmas tunes under the eaves of my hut tonight; At the same time, surrounded by a high moon, laurel trees and thick leaves give them a rich and dazzling luster, overwhelming their natural green.
Bards are humming their Christmas tunes, tonight, under my cabin in Tian She. At this time, the towering moon inspired them. Layers of laurel trees, covered with leaves, reflect full and dazzling luster, which has already surpassed the original color.
Through the hills and valleys, every breeze folds its wings to rest: the air is keen, but it can't freeze, nor can it stop the music of the strings; The band playing chords with laborious hands is so strong and tenacious.
Every breeze through the valley sinks and folds its wings: the wind is so sharp, but it never gets cold and never stops, and the strings make a sound:
Layer after layer is so strong, rubbing the string column with warm hands.
Who else but listening? -The till has been paid, every prisoner's request, greetings, the honor of playing music, the name of every family, timely announcement with energetic calls,
But who is listening? It depends on the opinions of the people who live together. Say hello, make a music, be proud of every surname, and be a formal and obvious strong title. Merry Christmas to everyone!