When I sketch your face with slender pen and ink, when I pronounce your name in a broken dialect, and when a poem of praise gushes out from my pen, I want to say that I love you so much. My motherland, capitalized China, is a fertile soil with a large number of flowers, and my motherland is a proud China nourished by a thousand-year-old culture. That is the most classic rhyme in Tang poetry and Song poetry. On my desk, there is the heaviest Xuan ink in the motherland, which is a collection of Da Zhuan, Lower Case, Han Li and Dragon and Phoenix Dance. My motherland is the southern country where birds are singing and flowers are fragrant in March. She has endless rice fields and endless lakes. She is a blue brick and tile, carved with beams and painted with buildings, growing in every yard. She is a brick of Qin Dynasty, an ancient tea-horse road, and an indomitable China engraved on every mountain. My motherland is a magnificent song on the alluvial plain of the Yellow River. My motherland is a winding river in the city where the Yangtze River flows. When I touch my motherland with my warm palm, I see capital strokes passing through my heart. My motherland is a China piled up with Chinese characters, which is influenced by 5,000 years of culture. It is China who splashes ink, the mountains and rivers where flowers and birds are freehand brushwork, and the motherland. You are the colorful silk thread in my mother's embroidered basket, the last peak of my father's vigorous brushwork, the square characters written in strokes, and the Chinese style that gathers vertically and horizontally. My capital is China, and I open your poems with a look up. Every peak of yours is an enlarged Chinese character.