Write a poem entitled "I love this land"

All my poems are always in the same strain as the land, and all my promises and pursuits are condensed in my pastoral and pen farming. When my soul has been deeply embedded in this land, I have created a splendid atmosphere in my life journey along the artistic conception of endless thinking. The wind in the reclamation area has propped up an atmosphere, a fragrant thought and a green wave emotion for me. Like wind and drizzle. It is more like the autumn sun, drunk and tired in countless fruits. The light of roots shines in my fertile countryside, and the meaning and strength of life shine between pen and plow. My country poems are full of mud songs. The purity of the grass leaves looks at the blood-lost land after harvest, and the whispers of gratitude burst out from my weak chest. I love this land > Ai Qing, I love this land. If I were a bird, I would also sing with a hoarse throat: this land hit by the storm, this river of sadness and indignation that will surge on us forever, this restless wind, and the incomparably gentle dawn from the forest ...-Then I died, and even my feathers rotted in the ground. Why do I often cry? Because I love this land deeply ... * * * * I see the land, yellow, black and red. My body came before my voice. I saw him, stepped on him, and the air heated by him was beside me, so I couldn't see it. I can't hear you. My body stepped into the void. I float after I weigh, I float after I fall, and I am originally on the ground. I imagine I won't fall behind. Imagine the beautiful scenery around you. But I saw land. Seeing him as much as possible is beyond imagination. Land is a labor writer, a living person and a human being. I saw the land, and countless lives lived and died on his chest, either adjacent or far away. I said the voice of the earth walked towards him and smiled obsequiously. The sound hit the land and was reflected, and gradually swam into the silent lake in all directions. I pointed to the land and tried to make him see me. My face began to look like a slave. Without pause, the long-lost body turned into pieces. Fly or bury. I am floating in the air, without sadness or despair. That belongs to young people. Two independent millstones, looking down at each other. I began to cry in their blended eyes. Tears are parallel to me, bigger and bigger, like a mirror. I see myself in the mirror-wearing a beautiful and unique aura.