I am your shabby old waterwheel by the river.
Tired songs that have been spun for hundreds of years;
I am a miner's lamp blackened on your forehead,
Do what you do in the tunnel of history;
I am a withered ear of rice; It is a roadbed that has been in disrepair for a long time;
This is a barge on the beach.
Draw the rope deep
Pull into your shoulder;
-the motherland!
I'm poor,
I am sad.
I am your ancestor.
Painful hope,
It's a flying sleeve.
Flowers that never fall to the ground for thousands of years;
-the motherland!
I am your brand-new ideal,
Just broke free 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;
This is crimson dawn.
It is sprayed;
-the motherland!
Ai Qing's I Love This Land
If I were a bird,
I should also sing with a hoarse throat:
This land hit by the storm,
This river of sadness and anger will surge forever,
This endless wind,
And the gentle dawn from the forest ...
And then I died,
Even feathers rot in the ground.
Why do I often cry?
Because I love this land deeply. ...