My dreams are an old village, you are a handful of shadows, but intimate My village, you worship the spring instead of steel, you worship the spring, my village is good and intimate, pleasant and beautiful, an old poem, but a yellow hand came from hell, he set fire to this village, he stole the spring with a handful of steel, he took it to the shade, gave it to the sun , my village was my dream, that was the good spring of my world.
