1. Motherland, dear motherland, I am the worn-out old waterwheel by your river, spinning tired songs for hundreds of years, I am the miner's lamp on your forehead, you grope in the tunnel of history, I am the withered ear of rice; Is it the dilapidated roadbed or the barge on the muddy beach that pulls the rope deeply into your shoulder-the motherland!
I am poor, I am sad, I am the painful hope of your ancestors, and I am the flower that will not fall to the ground between the sleeves of "flying"-the motherland.
I am your brand-new ideal. I just broke free from the spider web of myth. I am the germ of your ancient lotus under the snow. I am your tearful smile. I am the newly painted white starting line, and the crimson dawn is spreading-the motherland.
I am one billionth of you, the sum of your 9.6 million square meters. You fed me with scarred breasts, considerate me, and boiled me. Then I will get your richness, your glory and your freedom from my flesh and blood-my motherland, my dear motherland.
Second, for the oak tree, if I love you, I will never show off myself with your tall branches like climbing Campbell; If I love you-I will never learn from spoony birds and repeat simple songs for the shade, which not only brings cool comfort all year round, like spring; It is not just like a dangerous peak, it increases your height and sets off your dignity. Even during the day. Even spring rain. No, these are not enough! I must be a kapok beside you, standing with you as a tree. Roots, close to the ground, leaves, lingering in the clouds. Every time a gust of wind blows, we greet each other, but no one understands us. You have your copper branches and iron stems, like knives, swords and halberds; I have my red flowers, like a heavy sigh and like a heroic torch. We share cold waves, storms and lightning; We * * * enjoy the mist, flowing haze and rainbow, as if we were separated forever, but we were dependent on each other for life. This is great love, this is loyalty: love-not only your stalwart body, but also the position you insist on, the land under your feet.
Third, for some reason, a ship ran aground on a desolate reef, and the paint had not faded. The sail has been broken, there are no trees and grass, and they will not grow on the tidal sea. Just a few meters away from it, the waterfowl gasped and fluttered their wings anxiously, but even at the feet of the hurricane in the far sea, they lost their last strength. They looked at each other in despair at an eternal distance. Love crosses the boundary between life and death. The space of the century is intertwined with eternal new eyes. Will sincere love rot with the ceiling? Will flying souls be imprisoned in the threshold of freedom for life?