You are a civilization that has escaped from the mire, experienced vicissitudes and survived for five thousand years. I am your endless blood, pursuing light in the dark with black eyes. You are the bright moon wandering in Sai Han, Qin Guan, gently stroking my strange dreams, and you are coquettish and intelligent in the square characters, always nourishing my thirsty heart.
You are the misty rain in the south on the blue porcelain bottle, and you are the solemn and stirring Saibei style in the sound of Qiangdi. You are the rain lane I walked through with an oil-paper umbrella, and you are the pride of jumping off the mountain under the old vine in my dream.
In October, I sang softly. My dear motherland and I will always be young. You are the world where I was born and grew up, you are the beards I secretly grew, you are the faces I remember, you are a pair of big hands that helped me when I fell, you are the voices that encouraged me to support me, you are the souls that talked directly with my heart, you are the needle and thread in my kind mother's hands, you are the silent father in the blue sky behind me, and you are my chattering brothers and sisters.
You are my wife's expectation, my child's smiling face, and you are the wisps of smoke that I looked into the distance when I got lost, which moistened my eyes. In October, I sang affectionately, and I fell in love with my dear motherland.