The wind rolls the clouds.

The playground is crowded.

When the sun is burning,

And the breeze is coming,

Our passions are shot out.

People gather around,

Cheering on the playground.

For the spirites of sportsmen,

Forever make us proud.

Injuries could be seen,

But sorrow was never found.

All I want to sing is that,

98, we are forever young,

And you are all brighter than the sun.