The poetry of the earth will never die: the rustling spring rain will always nourish our hearts. The sound of the seedlings drinking water can bring you a trace of joy? The moment the seeds break out of the ground, that moment Has the exuberant life inspired your sunken soul? The poetry of the earth will never die: the cheerful Xia Lei beats the rhythm of progress, the sun is like fire, and it cannot conceal the youth that is like fire, and the breeze blows up the skirts, making us jump. How can I suppress my heart and the impulse to jump! The poetry of the earth will never die: the face is red with the numerous fruits, the sky is high and the air is refreshing, and the soul is light, but the joy will never disappear, accompanied by the rolling The wheat waves are breathing the breath of the mature season. Do you still want the small windows to be closed and flooded? The poetry of the earth will never die. The dancing elves, singing songs and dancing briskly, are running towards us. Come on. The sound of firecrackers, you must not think of the elf that frightened us. What should we do? A spring moon is a young bird, carrying the faint night, perched on the eaves of the ancient city... But, there is no Oriole song. Only the mute language of the night injects all the tenderness and tranquility into this yellow land that has been 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 became even quieter, like the dew on the green grass, I was also listening; it was the tide of thoughts that surged and rushed, shocking my heart: Spring is here, not only on the rugged road. Wandering on the trail. Spring will surely sprout buds and flowers on all the branches. Awakening the solemn mission, awakening the sleeping morning light. Everything born in spring will embrace this yellow land. 2. 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 the heavy rain of sunshine and became young. Truth brings together hope and strength. The mountains and plains reveal their vitality. All the blood in the yellow skin is burning. The years dig in 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 thorny and rocky fields. 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 grass, and around the foggy hills, writing unyieldingly on the sacredness and beauty. Flowers also bloomed on the rocks, and the dream came true. Everything is smelted, forged, and made glorious again. Water cannot flood, fire cannot burn; the sky cannot sink, the earth cannot bury. The world is astonished by this miracle of the East: It is always the spirit and blood waves of the surging Yellow River that stir the sails of life in the loess! 3. Joy is dancing. Accompanied by the whispers and play of the autumn wind, the branches are covered with fruits in September. This is the fruit in the sound of Jiangnan Weaver Girl'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 you not cherish the fruits in your hands? Joy sometimes tightens the lips. This is the yellow earth thinking about the sacred thoughts...