If I were a bird, I would also sing with a hoarse throat: this land hit by the storm,
This river is always filled with our grief and indignation, the restless wind, and the extremely gentle dawn from the forest ... Then I died, and even my feathers rotted in the ground. Why do I often cry?
Because I love this land deeply. ...
2. Motherland, my dear motherland, Shu Ting.
I am an old waterwheel worn by your river, spinning hundreds of years of old songs, I am a miner's lamp on your forehead, and I am a withered ear of rice that you grope for in the historical tunnel; It's a dilapidated roadbed and a barge on a muddy beach. Pull the fiber rope deep into the shoulder.
Motherland! I am poor, I am sad, I am your ancestor, painful hope, it is "flying sleeve, a flower that has not landed for thousands of years, it is a crimson dawn, it is blooming."