A classic poem as long as an oak tree.

Mu Dan's praise goes through endless ups and downs of mountains, rivers and grasslands, countless dense villages, crowing of chickens and barking of dogs, one after another in the primitive desolate places of Asia, whistling dry wind in boundless weeds, singing monotonous water flowing eastward under low-pressure dark clouds, and burying countless years in melancholy forests. They hugged me quietly: endless stories are endless disasters, silence is love, eagles flying in the sky, dry eyes waiting for spring tears, and immovable gray teams crawling in the distant sky; I have too many words and too long feelings. I want to hug you with desolate deserts, bumpy roads, mule carts, trough boats, wild flowers and rainy weather. You, the person I can see everywhere, the person who lives in shame, the rickety person, I want to hug you with blood-stained hands. Because a nation has risen. A farmer, whose rough body moves in the field, is a woman's child and the father of many children. How many dynasties have risen and fallen around him, putting hopes and disappointments on him, while he always rotates silently behind the plow, turning up the soil that also dissolved his ancestors, and the image of the same suffering freezes on the roadside. How many happy songs have passed on the road, and how many times have you come with his heart; On the way, people talked, shouted and were in high spirits, but he didn't. He just put down the old hoe, once again believed in nouns and dissolved into the love of the public. Firmly, he watched himself dissolve into death. The road was infinitely long, and he could not shed tears. He didn't cry because of the rise of a nation. Surrounded by mountains and under the blue sky, when Spring and Autumn passed by his house, there was the most subtle sadness in the deep valley: an old woman was waiting for her children, and many children were waiting for hunger, but they endured it. On the roadside, it is still the dark hut, the same unknown fear, and the same erosion of the soil of nature's life. He went and never looked back to curse. I want to hug everyone for him, and we can't pay happiness for him. Let's cry for him, because a nation has risen. It is also the wind of this long era, the endless groans and cold scattered from the sloping eaves. It sings on the top of a withered tree, it blows through barren swamps, reeds and insects, and it is also the sound of crows flying by. When I walked by, stood on the road, and lingered in this shameful history of mountains and rivers for many years, waiting, we had too much silent pain, but a nation rose, but a nation rose.