They have got up;
The sunset in the west, quietly hidden in the night,
They walked out of the building in disgrace.
Yes,
They are migrant workers who build tall buildings on wasteland and ruins.
They are migrant workers covered in dust in empty buildings.
The bright sun,
During the day, the weather becomes hot and bright.
The moon, clear,
The night becomes quiet and cool.
Day after day,
Deep pits make tall buildings,
Reinforced concrete built a fence.
They have long been used to such changes.
They are engineers hiding in the back,
They are floating in the dust.
The morning light is hazy and the mountains in the east are clear.
They have packed their clothes;
As the sun sets, the mountains in the west glow with the brilliance of Xia Hong.
They returned to the house with a tired face.
Yes,
They are dusty technicians,
They are technicians who are full of joy and sense of accomplishment when there are many tall buildings.
The sky is blue, the sun is white, and there is always a shuttle red hat upstairs;
In the dead of night, there is always someone burning a desk in the room.
Pay off the line upstairs during the day and draw pictures indoors at night.
It seems that I will never finish my work.
Year after year,
Occasionally I see them tired,
Occasionally hear their complaints,
But more importantly,
Hard work with the sun overhead and the clear sky behind.
When it rains in Mao Mao, they repay it with the sound of rain and listen to the rhythm of ticking;
When the light snow passed by, they covered themselves with snowflakes and roared against the cold wind to check the tendons.
From broken wells to crumbling city walls to high-rise buildings;
From desolation to factory siege;
When all this, all this,
When there is a long drama in front of us,
Will understand what is spectacular,
Only then will you understand what hard work is.
This poem is for people who work on the construction site. Because of my work, I often see such a scene, so I wrote it down one day.