Summer. Eastern horizon. A hundred flaming red suns are giving birth.
This is the take-off of the yellow land bathed in light. The sky is deep, the wilderness is deep, and the vegetation is swaying passionately with the joy of warmth and reproduction.
The old stopped drinking from the heavy rain of sunshine and became young.
Truth brings together hope and strength.
The mountains and plains reveal their vitality.
The blood in all the yellow skin is burning.
The years are digging solemnly, just like an ox bowing its head to bear a heavy load. The plowshare cuts through the eternal sleep and cuts through the desolation of the thorns and rocks. This is a time when the hard work is heavy. However, the sweaty longing never let up, and was finally able to overcome the confusion of loss. Time and love flow into the fields, over the grassland, and around the misty hills, writing unyieldingly on the sacredness and beauty.
There are also flowers on the stones, and the dream comes true.
Everything is smelted, forged, and made glorious again.
Water cannot flood, fire cannot burn;
The sky cannot collapse, and the earth cannot bury it.
The world is astonished by this miracle of the East:
The spirit and blood waves of the surging Yellow River are always the ones that stir the sails of life in the loess!