提示词：人生散文诗《一生》。
1. 壤：古代儿童玩具，以木做成，前宽后窄，长一尺多，形如鞋。玩时，先将一壤置于地，然后在三四十步远处，以另一壤击之，中者为胜。
2. 帝力：尧帝的力量。天来小子内观《击壤歌》：击壤歌
3. 日出而作，日入而息。 【太阳出来就去耕作田地，太阳落山就回家去休息。】
4. 凿井而饮，耕田而食。【凿一眼井就可以有水喝，种出庄稼就不会饿肚皮。】
5. 帝力于我何有哉！ 【这样的日子有何不自在，谁还去羡慕帝王的权力。】。
6. 写作背景：传说在尧帝的时代，“天下太和，百姓无事”，老百姓过着安定舒适的日子。一位八九十岁的老人，一边悠闲地做着“击壤”的游戏，一边唱出了这首歌。
7. 天来小子莞尔而笑曰：哈哈哈，这是古代版的《小人物的心声》啊！
8. 继而天来小子伤心落泪：呜呜呜，上面的大人物不负责任，小人物受苦受难啊，连喘口气都难啊，哪唱得了歌？
散文诗《一生》
击壤的木声，叩响了千古悠悠，
那是尧帝时代的一曲闲歌，
一个老人，白发如雪，
一手握壤，一手抚天，
唱着：
“日出而作，日入而息，
凿井而饮，耕田而食。
帝力于我何有哉！”
呵，多么简单，多么从容，
天地和，风雨顺，
万物生，人无忧，
小人物在尧帝的仁政下，
像散落于田野的树叶，
虽渺小，却安稳；
像溪流间的鹅卵石，
虽平凡，却自在。
莞尔而笑
啊，这古老的《击壤歌》，
仿佛是一位八九十岁的老农，
笑着，哼着，
用粗糙的双手拾起时光的碎片，
以一只木壤投向无忧的年华。
这一刻，天地宽，
帝力远，
权力与财富不过尘土，
留下的是一种生活的原味：
有水，有饭，有家，有天。
悲叹而泪
然而，天来小子抚古思今，
从笑中醒来，从歌中坠落。
我看到今日小人物的身影，
不再悠闲，不再击壤。
手握的不是玩具，而是沉重的生活；
投掷的不是欢愉，而是无尽的疲惫。
太阳还未升，便已忙碌，
夜深人未息，喘息成了奢望。
凿井，却饮不到清泉；
耕田，却换不来温饱。
小人物的歌，变成了一声声叹：
“日出而疲，日入而忧；
有井却干，有田却荒。
帝力于我，何负焉！”
结语：小人物的叹息
啊，尧帝的时代成了传说，
击壤的闲歌化为一场梦。
古人唱得尽兴，
而今人流泪无声。
或许，真正的“大人物”，
是那位击壤的老人，
他有天地间的从容，
有田间劳作的安然，
更有无惧帝力的心声。
愿人间再次听到那古老的歌：
“日出而作，日入而息，
凿井而饮，耕田而食。
帝力于我何有哉！”
A Life in Verse
The sound of striking wooden rang echoes across the ages,
a tune of leisure from the time of Emperor Yao.
An old man, with hair as white as frost,
one hand holding the wooden rang, the other reaching for the heavens,
sings:
"At sunrise, I work; at sunset, I rest.
I drink from the well I’ve dug; I eat from the fields I’ve tilled.
What need have I for the emperor’s power?"
Ah, such simplicity, such serenity.
The world is at peace, the seasons are kind,
nature thrives, and the people are content.
The common folk, under the benevolent rule of Yao,
are like leaves scattered across the fields—
small, yet secure;
like smooth pebbles in a stream—
ordinary, yet undisturbed.
A Smile of Amusement
Oh, this ancient "Song of Striking Rang,"
feels like the voice of an eighty- or ninety-year-old farmer,
laughing, humming,
as his rough hands grasp fragments of time,
tossing a piece of wooden rang toward a carefree past.
In that moment, the world is vast,
the emperor’s power distant,
and wealth and authority dissolve like dust.
What remains is the pure taste of life:
water to drink, food to eat,
a home, and the sky above.
A Cry of Sorrow
Yet, as I, the child of heaven, reflect on the past and present,
I wake from the smile,
fall from the song.
I see the shadow of today’s common folk,
no longer at ease, no longer playing rang.
In their hands are no toys but the weight of life;
what they throw is not joy, but endless fatigue.
The sun has yet to rise, and already they toil.
Late into the night, they struggle,
breathless, gasping for respite.
They dig wells, yet find no water;
they sow fields, yet reap no grain.
The song of the small folk has become a dirge of lament:
"At sunrise, I strain; at sunset, I worry.
There’s a well, but it’s dry; there’s land, but it’s barren.
And the emperor’s power—how has it failed me?"
Epilogue: The Cry of the Small Folk
Ah, the age of Emperor Yao has become legend,
the song of rang has faded into a dream.
The ancients sang with abandon,
while today, tears fall in silence.
Perhaps the true "great man"
is that old rang-playing elder.
He had the ease of the heavens and earth,
the peace of labor in the fields,
and a heart unshaken by the emperor’s might.
May humanity once again hear that ancient melody:
"At sunrise, I work; at sunset, I rest.
I drink from the well I’ve dug; I eat from the fields I’ve tilled.
What need have I for the emperor’s power?"
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