Your pale fingertips touch my temple,
I can't help acting like a child.
Hold on to your skirt.
Ah, mom,
In order to keep your aging figure,
Although the morning light cuts dreams into smoke,
I still dare not open my eyes for a long time.
I still cherish that bright red scarf,
Afraid that cleaning will make it
Lose your unique warmth.
Ah, mom,
Isn't the running water of the years just as ruthless?
I'm afraid my memory will disappear,
How dare I open its screen easily?
I cried out to you for a thorn,
Now that I'm wearing a police uniform, I dare not,
I dare not moan.
Ah, mom,
I often look up at your photos sadly,
Even if the call can penetrate the loess,
How dare I disturb your sleep?
I dare not show the gift of love like this,
Although I have written many songs.
For flowers, for the sea, for the dawn.
Ah, mom,
My sweet, soft and deep memory,
Not rapids, not waterfalls,
It is an ancient well that can't sing among flowers and trees.