Chen Hui
I, uh, am complaining,
I am not a pianist.
Motherland, I belong to you,
A spendthrift
Son of working people.
I love you deeply, deeply!
I, though I can't,
Just like the singers who sing the Marseillaise,
Under the scorching sun,
Next to the barricade where the Paris Commune fought,
Pluck the strings of the lyre,
Let it spit out things that shake the world,
The first most beautiful song of mankind,
Here's to you.
And I won't ride on the back of a cow,
Touch piccolo.
Neither will I,
On the threshing floor in August,
Raise the bamboo flute,
Blow gently;
Let the flute float over the mud wall,
In the Liu Yin by the river.
however
When I looked up and saw you,
my motherland
High in the blue sky,
The vast wilderness,
White clouds floated by that day,
or
That little red flower,
Smiled and stood up from the gap.
My heart,
How excited,
Just like in our hometown.
Miao girl,
On a sunny August night,
Jump wildly with the beat. …………
Motherland,
I belong to you,
A purple-black young soldier.
When I carry my back
That old "old Mao Se" gun,
Walking across the plain,
Saw the enemy's black turret,
The red plaster flag flying on the turret,
I'm covered in blood, which is exciting.
Like a grassland with deep snow outside the customs,
Like a big storm, rushing in,
Soldiers of motherland athletes ...
Motherland,
With the milk of love,
Raised me;
And I,
I will also protect you with my flesh and blood!
Maybe tomorrow, I will fall down;
Maybe when chopping people,
Japanese spear head,
Hit me in the stomach;
Maybe,
I will die silently on the gallows,
Motherland,
Under the butcher's knife of the invaders,
I won't shed a tear,
I, Gao Xiao,
Because, uh,
I
Your extravagant son,
Your guardian,
His life,
Wrote a song for you
A lofty "praise".
I sing,
homeland
On the loess pile where my ashes are buried,
There will also be flowers of love growing.