Terraced Field
Wenshan, by the time you’ve finished writingI’ll have already released the albumNo worries, take your timeI’ll do this song myself
Going back to those middle school daysMy hometown’s patch, patch, patch of terraced fieldIs the most beautiful green I’ve ever seenAnd thus it let me win “Best Picture”The me in the photo was baffled andUnable to write like a poetThe me who was riding the bus to schoolAnd watching the cows eat grass from the windowWas inexplicably carefree and unrestrained
hoi ya e ya that Luwan na e na ya heiOh, my dear cowshoi ya e ya that Luwan na e na ya heiOh, where have you run off to?
The gutter opposite the shopGushing out our dreams of growing olderAs we dodged innocence and jumped into the harvest seasonOur sweat mixing with satisfaction and laughterIs the photo, photo I’ve most regretted parting withAnd is another one of my works
The picture I relied on memories to make an oil painting ofWhat’s the point of having an award for that?I urge you to take yourself backHmph, what I really want to do is to tear it up in exchange for natureWhy can’t I see the terraced fields?There are a lot more hotelsLiving and watching Western films insideThe water buffaloes have merely become picturesHanging on the wallsA symbol of the rich getting ever richerGroups of foreigners want to look outside the windows at the sceneryBut they can only seeHotels with more storys than yours
hoi ya e ya that Luwan na e na ya heiOh, my dear cowshoi ya e ya that Luwan na e na ya heiOh, where have you run off to?
Taking advantage of the local conditionsIs that right or wrong?Is humanity in a tight corner?Wrecking the natural wildlifeIs that hard work?You say it’s because of the craftThat the trees are cut downHmph, is this right or wrong?
You say it’s for decorationAsk me what my issue isCan we only use video recordings?To give the next generation, the next generation a wake up call?Pitiful, lamentableThe green forest has already been made into a documentaryThat smell of green is goneYou can only enjoy the heavy pollution
I can’t teach you guysI’m not your teacherI’m not your principalNor can I give you a slap, slap, slap, slapSpeech, speech, speech, lengthy speech
You’ll absolutely refuse to listenI know this but I can help itI have to writeYou guys may never realizeWe, the ones under a microscopeWill become even more selfishThis kind of art is truly hard to comprehend