Motherland, what should I be to you?
Is it the swaying green on your ridge or the beautiful flowers by the stream?
Is it the song of your boat coming back late, or the waterfall flowing in the mountain stream?
In my motherland, clouds become streams.
Cattle and sheep reflect clear waves, and distant mountains are slightly smoky.
Smoke curled up and floated into a woman's skirt.
The fields are gray, lighting up the farmers' songs.
Villages, crows and flutes converge into a stream.
Whose dream will the moon light up?
Motherland, what should I be to you?
Is it a wisp of willow brushing the water by the lake, or is it a faint smoke rising from the kitchen?
Is it a little water from the fountain or a little yellow on the butterfly's wings?
In my country, buildings are taller than the sunset.
The far tower provokes the sunset, and the yangko overflows the street.
Laughter, rolling traffic.
Iraqis' eyebrows sparkled with moonlight.
The red color of wine, the flash of silverware, the flow of music.
Keep the lights on all night
Motherland, what should I be to you?
Is it a laughing pine in Huangshan Mountain or a floating cloud in Emei?
Is it the fog of Lushan Mountain or Jiuzhai following the crowd?
Motherland, the bell beside the Maple Bridge is still ringing.
The wine from the west to Yangguan is not cold yet.
The forest beside the Great Wall is all red and crescent-shaped like a hook.
The watchman in Chang 'an is still awake.
Poetry in Tang and Song Dynasties danced on bluestone bricks.
Motherland, what should I be to you?
Is it a sad smile from Yue Fei or a sigh from Wen Tianxiang?
Is it the gale of Sun Yat-sen waving flags or the light of Lu Xun's brow?
My motherland, Qinhuai River, is still flowing.
I cried as much as I laughed.
The battery of Humen reflects the moon and gives off faint smoke.
The pines and cypresses in the mountains are shining and heroic.
Zhou Enlai's smile is still there, and the voice in front of Tiananmen Square is still there.
Monuments that have experienced wind and rain stand signposts.
Let people come and go in the March sun.
Motherland, what should I be to you?
Is it a smile on your face or a slight sadness?
Is it your elegant dress at the Eucharist, or is it a hidden injury?
Dear motherland, how can I love you?
Is to keep singing for you and constantly powder.
Or write a poem with conscience.
Say a word with my sincerity
Shout out your pain with my last breath.
Root my bones in the soil.
The green of oath grows year by year, and the light of perseverance increases day by day.
Motherland, how can I love you?
Dear motherland, I will always belong to you.
With my heart, my feelings, my love.
Write a song, singing happiness, sadness, bitterness and joy.
It's all my regrets.
My dear motherland, I will always be yours.
Always snuggle up to you and always listen to your heartbeat.