If I were a bird,

I would sing with my hoarse voice：

Of this land was buffeted by storms,

Of this river turbulent with our grief,

Of these angry winds ceaselessly blowing,

And of the dawn, infinitely gentle over the woods...

——Then I would die,

And even my feathers would rot in the soil.

Why are my eyes always brimming with tears?

Because I love this land so deeply...