Although it is,

a few humble rooms,

some shabby tables and chairs.

but often a song is not finished,

and then a song starts again.

Today,

I still sing songs,

I just don't see you.

Today is not what it used to be.

Today is a kind of singing,

There are ten thousand kinds of laughter.

Who treasures it?

Yes,

It's a long way to the end of the world,

Who pity the prodigal son?

If you want to make a colored book without a piece of paper,

crush that broken pen.

How many things,

have become dreams,

What are we talking about?

Less firewood and no rice:

a bedroll,

a bundle of broken books,

the picture is quiet.