If I were a lonely boat,
Mother, like a bright light in Wang Yang, stands quietly.
If I were a flower bud,
Mother is like the rain and dew in the morning, silently moistening.
If I were a fish,
Mother is like a stream in a mountain stream, quietly feeding me.
If I were a kite,
Mother is like a long line in the wind and rain, gently pulling.
If I were a bamboo shoot in spring,
Mother is like the beautiful sunshine in early spring, shining warmly.
If I were a seedling,
Mother, like fertile soil in the field, is deeply cultivated.