Chapter 18 Selected Poems of Ai Qing-I Love This Land

If I were a bird, I too should sing with a hoarse throat: This storm-beaten land, The river of our grief and indignation is ever tossed, The furious wind blowing endlessly, And the very tender dawn from the woods... —and then I died, Even the feathers rot in the ground. Why do I often have tears in my eyes? Because I love this land deeply...