Author: Ai Qing

Source: Selected Poems of Ai Qing

Snow falls on the land of China, and the cold is closing China ... The wind, like an old woman who is too sad, closely follows the cold fingers and pulls the skirts of pedestrians. With your land, it's like an ancient land that never stops ... Where are you going, the China farmer who came out of the forest, driving a carriage, wearing a fur hat and braving the heavy snow?

I tell you, I am also a descendant of farmers-because your wrinkled faces are full of epilepsy, I can deeply understand the hardships of people living on the grassland.

And I am not happier than you-the bitter waves lying on the river of time swallowed me up several times and rolled me up again-the flowing waves and imprisonment lost the most expensive day of my youth, and my life was as haggard as you.

Snow falls on the land of China, and the cold is closing China ... On a snowy night, a small oil lamp moves slowly by the river, and the broken awning boat reflects the light. Who is sitting with his head down?

Ah, you unkempt little woman, is this your home-is the happy and warm nest burned down by the ferocious enemy?

Is it also like this night, without the protection of men, in fear of death, you were stabbed 7 times by the enemy, just like our elderly mother on this cold night, like a foreigner who doesn't know what kind of journey the wheel will embark on tomorrow?

-And the roads in China are so rugged and muddy.

Snow falls on the land of China: the cold is closing China ... those who have been eaten by bonfires.