I found it online. See if it works.
one
Chunyue is a chick, carrying a faint night, perching on the eaves of the ancient city. ...
However, there is no song of oriole.
Only the dumb language of the night has injected all tenderness and silence into this thirsty and energetic yellow land. Moonlight soaked the road, and the scenery longed for the flames of bronze and white stone. I stood with bated breath, staring at the depths of time, silently listening to the sleeping winter covered by heavy history books, listening to the souls of immortal ancestors who fell in the yellow dust of winter. Quiet night is quieter, like dew on the green grass, listen; It's a surging wave of thoughts that shakes my mind:
Spring has come, not just wandering on the rugged path.
Spring will surely sprout and blossom on all branches.
Wake up the solemn mission and wake up the sleeping morning light.
Everything born in spring will embrace this yellow land.
two
summer The eastern horizon. A hundred burning suns are being born.
This is the take-off of the yellow land bathed in sunshine. The sky is deep, the wilderness is deep, and the vegetation is swaying passionately with the warmth and joy of reproduction.
The ancients stopped drinking the heavy rain of sunshine and became young.
Truth embodies hope and strength.
The mountains and plains are full of vitality.
Yellow skin's blood is burning.
Years, solemn excavation, like a key cow with its head bowed and its load borne, plowed through the eternal sleep and the wilderness of thorns and rocks. This is a heavy moment because the work is very hard. However, the sweaty desire has never slackened, and finally the lost confusion can be overcome. Time and love flow into fields, across grasslands and around misty hills, and indomitable writing is sacred and rich.
In the field of dreams, flowers are also blooming on the stones.
Everything is melted, forged and brilliant again.
Water cannot be flooded, and fire cannot be burned;
The sky can't sink and the ground can't be buried.
The world is amazed at the miracle of the East:
It will always be the spirit and blood waves of the Yellow River, which will swell the sails of the yellow land!
three
Joy, dance.
With the whispering and frolicking of autumn wind, many fruits in September are covered with branches.
This is the fruit from The Voice of the Weaver Girl in the South of the Yangtze River.
This is the fruit of bright lights of northern scholars.
The joys and sorrows of farmers and soldiers nourished it.
Yesterday's expectations, worries, strategies and struggles have all turned into fragrant and sweet juice.
Joy opens all the doors and windows.
People have entered the harvest season.
Remember the fetters of dead vines on the road?
Remember that dark night, the attack of cold wind and ice and snow?
We used to call it the flag under the changeable sky!
When the abyss howls, how can we not cherish the fruit in our hands?
Joy sometimes purses her lips, which is the sacred heart of yellow earth thinking. ...
four
Years break into the maze of winter, and the snow is long.
Eyes lit with glittering and translucent flame, dance steps spun white melody, full of noise, but silent, snow covered the vast yellow land.
I saw the testimony when I vented my cold.
But this is by no means the last movement.
Smoke, clouds, illusions and dreams. In the whole body dancing and trembling, this warm snow and the Holy Spirit are creating an incandescent and dazzling world, providing a faithful promise:
Let the seeds be full of desire again.
Let the river burst into flames.
Fill your heart with hidden love.
Quiet, without confusion or defilement.
And when the last piece of ice on the desert beach melts, when the wandering stars look for the first sound of spring, the yellow land will rise again and realize the endless joy of reproduction and harvest.
Time is always moving forward in a mighty way. Yellow land, eternal youth ...
The author's name is Liu Qian, and his writing style is really good.