热情夏威夷舞曲，旋转着赤裸的脚掌，缓轻的吉他节拍摇舞着戴花环的手臂。
那手，那纤纤手指，时而似蝴蝶在头顶上翩翩，时而如柳枝在细腰旁飞扬。
四个姣俏少女的剪影贴在洁白的银幕上，煤气灯用强烈的光芒聚射出轻歌曼舞的舞影。
草裙舞，洋溢着南国风情，诱惑着几百双眼眸！喧闹着复建后的仰光华侨中学的草坪，驱散了夏日残余的燠热。
当舞曲结束，天幕拉开，群众哗然！
舞者，是四个低年级男生，他们摘来野花编织花环，他们用翠绿的树叶串成了
剥裂的草裙。
“还记得那四个男生的名字吗？”
“除了你我之外，”定居香港的杨双溪在信中回忆：“尚有黄衍忠和原在中央人民广播电台缅语广播组的王善忠。”
“回忆起来还真有意思！”从照片里看出，杨君那一头沧桑漂白的头发如我一样。
岁月啊！使我们的皮肤起了皱纹，而缅华少年的青春热情，还在我们的心中燃烧吗？
A passionate Hawaiian melody. Bare feet turning. To the gentle beat of a guitar, garlanded arms swayed in dance.
Those hands, those slender fingers—one moment fluttering above the head like butterflies, the next sweeping beside a slim waist like willow branches.
The silhouettes of four pretty young girls were cast against a white screen. A gas lamp threw a strong beam of light upon their light-footed singing and dancing shadows.
The hula, filled with the flavor of the southern seas, held several hundred pairs of eyes spellbound. It stirred the lawn of the newly rebuilt Overseas Chinese Middle School in Rangoon and drove away the lingering heat of the summer evening.
When the music ended and the screen was pulled aside, the crowd burst into an uproar.
The dancers were four younger boys. They had gathered wildflowers and woven them into garlands. They had strung together green leaves to make their split grass skirts.
“Do you still remember the names of those four boys?”
“Besides you and me,” Yang Shuangxi, who had settled in Hong Kong, recalled in a letter, “there were also Huang Yanzhong and Wang Shanzhong, who later worked in the Burmese-language broadcasting section of China National Radio.”
“It really is amusing to think back on it!”
Looking at his photograph, I could see that Mr. Yang’s hair, bleached white by the years, was just like mine.
Ah, time! It has wrinkled our skin. But does the youthful passion of those Burmese Chinese boys still burn in our hearts?