"The poetry of the earth will never die"...The poetry of the earth will never die: the rustling spring rain will always nourish our hearts, and the sound of the little seedlings drinking water can be... Bring you a trace of joy? The moment the seeds broke out of the ground, did the vigorous life inspire your sunken soul? The poetry of the earth never dies: the cheerful Xia Lei beats the rhythm of progress, and the scorching sun is like fire, covering up Without the flaming youth, the breeze blows up the skirts, driving our beating hearts, and the urge to jump, how can we suppress it! The poetry of the earth will never die: the little faces are red with the numerous fruits, the sky is high and the air is refreshing , the soul is light, but the joy will never disappear. Accompanied by the rolling wheat waves, breathing the breath of the mature season, do you still want the small windows to be tightly flooded? The poetry of the earth will never die, the beating little ones The elves, singing songs and dancing briskly, are running towards us. The sound of firecrackers, you must not think of the little elves who frightened us. What should we do?
Have you read an article? Is the prose called "Years Flow on the Yellow Earth"? It's a text I studied when I was a child. It's very similar to your requirements and it's very well written.
I found it online, see if you can use it.
一
The spring moon is a young bird, carrying the faint night light, perched on the eaves of the ancient city...
However, there is no Oriole song .
Only the mute language of the night injects all the tenderness and tranquility into this yellow land that is thirsty for years but has eternal vitality. The moonlight wetted the road, and the landscape longed for the flames of bronze and white stone. I stood with bated breath, staring into the depths of time, silently listening to those winters that fell asleep covered by the thick annals of history and the immortal souls of our ancestors who fell in the yellow dust of winter. The quiet night has become even quieter, like the dew on the green grass, it is also listening; it is the tide of thoughts that surges forward, shocking my heart:
Spring Come, don’t just wander the rugged trails.
Spring will surely bring buds and flowers to all the branches.
Awaken the solemn mission, wake up the sleeping morning companion.
Everything born in spring will embrace this yellow land.
Two
Summer. Eastern horizon. A hundred flaming red suns are giving birth.
This is the take-off of the yellow land bathed in light. The sky is deep, the wilderness is deep, and the vegetation is swaying passionately with the joy of warmth and reproduction.
The old stopped drinking from the heavy rain of sunshine and became young.
Truth brings together hope and strength.
The mountains and plains reveal their vitality.
The blood in all the yellow skin is burning.
The years are digging solemnly, just like an ox bowing its head to bear a heavy load. The plowshare cuts through the eternal sleep and cuts through the desolation of the thorns and rocks. This is a time when the hard work is heavy. However, the sweaty longing never let up, and was finally able to overcome the confusion of loss. Time and love flow into the fields, over the grassland, and around the misty hills, writing unyieldingly on the sacredness and beauty.
There are also flowers on the stones, and the dream comes true.
Everything is smelted, forged, and made glorious again.
Water cannot flood, fire cannot burn;
The sky cannot collapse, and the earth cannot bury it.
The world is astonished by this miracle of the East:
The spirit and blood waves of the surging Yellow River are always the ones that stir the sails of life in the loess!
Three
Joyful, dancing.
Accompanied by the whispers and play of the autumn wind, the branches are covered with fruits in September.
This is the fruit from the sound of Jiangnan’s loom.
This is the fruit of northern scholars’ bright light.
The joys and sorrows of farmers and soldiers nourished it.
The expectations, worries, strategies and struggles of yesterday have all turned into fragrant and sweet juice.
Joy opens all doors and windows.
People enter the harvest season.
Do you still remember the bondage of withered vines and wild vines on the way here?
Do you still remember the dark night, the attack of cold wind and ice and snow?
Under the changing sky we once called for the flag!
When the abyss roars, how can we not cherish the fruits in our hands?
Happiness sometimes tightens the lips. This is the yellow land thinking about the sacred thoughts...
Four
The years break into the maze of winter, and the snow is long sky.
The eyes were shining with crystal flames, and the dance steps produced a pure white melody. It was full of excitement, but silent, and the snow covered the vast loess land.
I saw the catharsis of the severe cold. testimony.
But this is by no means the last movement.
Like smoke, like clouds, like illusions, like dreams. In the flying and trembling of the plump feathers around it, this passionate warm snow, the holy spirit, is creating an incandescent and dazzling world, dedicating a loyal and unswerving promise:
Let the seeds bloom again Full of desire.
Let the rivers set off soaring flames.
Let your heart be filled with a deep love that has never been revealed.
Quietly, without confusion or defilement.
And when the last piece of ice melts on the deserted beach, and when the wandering stars search for the first chirp of spring, the yellow land will rise again to realize the endless reproduction and prosperity. The joy of harvest.
The years are always moving forward mightily.
The yellow land, eternal youth...
The poetry of the earth will never die: the rustling spring rain will always nourish our hearts, and the sound of the seedlings drinking water can bring you
p>A trace of joy? The moment the seeds broke out of the ground, did the vigorous life inspire your sunken soul?
The poetry of the earth never dies: the cheerful Xia Lei beats The pace of progress, the scorching sun, cannot conceal the flaming youth, the gentle breeze blows up our skirts
and drives our beating hearts. How can we suppress the urge to jump!
The poetry of the earth will never die: the faces are red with the numerous fruits, the sky is high and the air is refreshing, the soul is light, but the joy will never disappear, accompanied by the rolling wheat waves
With the breath of the mature season, do you still want the small windows to be closed tightly?
The poetry of the earth will never die, and the dancing elves sing songs and dance briskly. , running towards us. The sound of firecrackers, you must not
Don’t think of the little elf who scared us, what should we do?