The last minute The last minute Midnight, Hong Kong. Let me hold your hand and listen to the last minute of the stormy return. Listen to your footsteps getting closer and closer, listen to the heartbeats and questions of all Chinese people. The last minute is the shape of the flag, the slowly rising red between heaven and earth, the flagpole - the straight backbone of the Chinese people, the unfolding of the land and sky of Hong Kong, the moment of silence amidst the joy of the masses, the silence. Whose lips are trembling slightly, who is gently calling that name over and over again in tears: Hong Kong, Hong Kong, our heart! I saw that the last wisp of smoke over Humen finally dissipated at the last minute after a hundred years; the torn history textbook, on the 1997 page of the Eighth Five-Year Plan, the face of the city, the yellow-skinned face, What is flowing slowly - hundreds of years of pain and joy, all passing through this teardrop, and the sea is boiling! It is midnight and early morning. All eyes are brand new sunrises, and all salutes are the bells of the century.
Hong Kong, let me hold your hand tightly, listen to the stormy return at the last minute, and then run, hug, and greet the first fresh, dewy, fragrant flower rooted deep in the earth. Bauhinia...