Grass and gold surge in my chest.
Yan Di Long Pao Neijing
Muddy tears and expressions.
I have been running through my youth.
My bad breath
When I hold a copper pot to warm my eyes, tears flow like a river.
Who is your drunken boat?
Suppress one's throbbing chest
I look forward to the Beidou full of thunder.
A thousand Yellow River diaries were unveiled by you.
A thousand diaries are Qian Fan's back.
Qian Fan's back. You're back.
When I lead the cattle and drive the sheep, I disappear into your noisy entrance at dusk.
When I drag my children, help the old and take care of the young, and live and roam on your road.
When the brazier on my head worships your deep source
Yellow River I long for a bumper harvest after the storm.
My black hair and white hair are in the Yellow River and thousands of feet.
I flew thousands of feet along the Yellow River.
I dream of the Yellow River in Tiema Glacier.
My canoe crossed the Yellow River in Wanzhong Mountain.
I really can't take my photo away from the Yellow River with my face.
I really took my songs away, but I couldn't take my feelings away.
The rising sea can't drown the sunset in my heart.
The world of mortals in the eyes, the river is getting worse and worse and can't be buried.
My river that never hits the south wall and never looks back.
My river without coffins and tears
I can't reach the Great Wall, not a hero's river.
My river won't die if it can't see the sea.
My blows and blows hit the bustling river.
My stumbling river
I can't leave without a river.
When the stone turns into foam,
When bones turn into waves
Sorghum fell and there was blood.
When tears are shaped into wheat ears of highland barley
When my feet are covered with mud, I have a hard job in my hand.
Yellow River You are the song I want to sing when I am tired.
A whip shadow drives a carriage full of flames and tears.
A village full of apricot blossoms and moistened by folk songs
Drunk, the north wind stands in your Hedong Hexi Henan Hebei
Yellow River, I am the mountain you grew up watching.
The flowers in Shandandan are colorful, and your mountains made of water and slopes made of waves are colorful.
Little by little, the stars in the sky light your pulse with nine twists and eighteen bends.
When I was humming that nursery rhyme under the scorching sun and frost.
You are my motherland and my dream is my horse.