The poem praising the mother river is not a song of the Yellow River and the Yangtze River, but a modern poem.

Days and nights whizzing away in my eyes, tears and expressions of grass gold, Emperor Yan's robes, Huangdi's Canon of Internal Medicine, mud and sand, endless youth, the blood breath of my horses and chariots, when I hold a copper pot to warm my tears, who is your drunken boat depressing my heart? I am looking forward to discovering that a thousand diaries of Beidou Yellow River are full of thunder. A thousand diaries are the back of Qian Fan and Qian Fan. You are the roaring back. My emotions are extravagant and wasteful. My destiny is a dark road. My silent father was choked to tears by the dry smoke. My nagging was blackened by the stove. My mother put too many peppers in Lanzhou beef noodles. My salt put too much Shaanxi mutton in the foam. I disappeared in your dusk when I was driving the animals and driving the birds. Noisy entrance When I drag my children and take care of the old and the young, I walk on your road. When the brazier on my head bows to your deep source. When I open your muddy Yellow River with memories, I long for a good harvest after the storm. My black hair and white hair are three times as tall as thousands of feet. I flew down the Yellow River to thousands of feet, my iron horse glacier dreamed of the Yellow River, my canoe crossed the Yellow River in Wanzhong Mountain, and I took my photos with me. The Yellow River can't take away my face, my songs, but my feelings. The rising of the Yellow River can't drown the sunset in my heart, and the red dust in my eyes can't bury it. My river that doesn't hit the south wall and doesn't look back, my river that doesn't see coffins and tears, my river that doesn't see the Great Wall, my river that doesn't see the sea, my immortal river, my bustling river, my stumbling. There is a river that cannot be separated from me. When stones turn into foam, when bones turn into waves, when sorghum falls in a pool of blood, when tears are molded into an ear of highland barley, when my feet are covered with muddy water, I hold a hard job in my hands. The Yellow River is a song that I want to sing when I am tired. Whip shadow driving a carriage full of tears, folk songs full of apricot flowers wet village. The north wind blows bitterly. In your Hedong Hexi Henan Hebei Yellow River, I am the mountain range that you grew up watching. My great grandson Zhao Li Wu Zhou Wang Zheng has a hundred family names. At the beginning of my life, my sexual goodness is similar. My compendium of Chinese materia medica is full of traditional Chinese medicines, my twenty-four histories of China, my sleepless dream of red mansions, my tearful laughter and everlasting regret songs, my ups and downs, my boatman's songs of life and death, and my enthusiasm. The hustle and bustle of thousands of lights, my surging efforts, my sonorous bones, the colorful flowers in Shandandan, the mountains made of water and the stars in the sky, ignite your tortuous pulse bit by bit, raise a glass to dispel your worries and worry more about the Yellow River. But since the water is still flowing, although we cut it with a sword. When the sun shines on my head, Frost hums that nursery rhyme, you are my China and my dream is my horse.