I. Motherland, My Dear Motherland
I am your shabby old waterwheel by the river, spinning tired songs for hundreds of years; When you grope in the tunnel of history, I am a miner's lamp with black forehead. I am the withered ear of rice, the disrepair roadbed; It is the barge on the muddy beach that pulls the rope deep into your shoulder-the motherland! I'm poor and I'm sad.
I am the painful hope of your forefathers, the flower that will never land between the sleeves of "flying"-the motherland! I am your brand-new ideal, just breaking away from the spider web of myth; I am the germ of your ancient lotus under the snow; I am your laughing vortex with tears hanging; I am the newly painted white starting line; What is breaking out is the crimson dawn; -the motherland! I am one billionth of you, the sum of your 9.6 million square meters.
You fed me with scarred breasts, confused me, considerate me and boiled me; Then get your wealth, your glory and your freedom from my flesh and blood; -Motherland, my dear motherland!
Second, "like"
Rolling mountains, rivers, grasslands, countless dense villages, chickens crowing and dogs crowing, have all been whistling dry winds in the boundless weeds in Asia, singing monotonous water flowing eastward under low-pressure dark clouds, and countless years have been buried in melancholy forests.
They hugged me quietly: endless stories are endless disasters, silent love, eagles flying in the sky, dry eyes waiting for tears, and immovable gray teams crawling in the distant sky; I have too many words, too long feelings, I want to use desolate desert, bumpy roads, mule carts, I want to use trough boats, wild flowers everywhere, and rainy days, I want to hug you with everything.
There are people you and I see everywhere, people living in shame and people with rickets. I want to hug you one by one with blood-stained hands, because a nation has risen.
A farmer, whose rough body moves in the field, is the child of a woman named Ge Zhaochuan and the father of many children. The ups and downs of many dynasties have placed hopes and disappointments on him. He always turns around behind the plow, turning up the same soil dissolved by his ancestors, and the same image of suffering freezes on the roadside.
How many happy songs have passed on the road, and how many times have you followed his heart? On the way, people talked, shouted and were in high spirits, but he didn't. He had to put down the old hoe, believe that famous saying again, and melt into the love of the public. Firmly, he watched himself dissolve into death. The road was infinitely long, but he couldn't shed tears because he didn't shed tears.
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 I have lost the comfort of hugging him. We can't give happiness because of him. Let's cry for him, because a nation has risen.
It is also the wind of this long age, and it is also the endless groans and chills that emanate from this sloping roof. It sings on the top of withered trees, it blows through swamps, reeds and insects in the wilderness, and it is also the sound of crows flying by. When I passed by and stood on the road, I tripped.