What are the words of praise for the motherland?

What is it, like a sword that cuts through the iron curtain of the years and shines brightly? What is it, like a huge priest waking a sleeping lion and yelling at the strong voice of the times? What is it, if it is a monument, to publicize the melody of marching and remember the hardships of starting a business? This is my great motherland! Friend! This is my motherland's 50th birthday!

Fifty years is a moment in the long history. But what kind of storms have stirred up in these 50 years? In the past 50 years, we have cleaned up the sludge and turbid water; In these fifty years, I am determined to change the world. In fifty years, clouds have covered my eyes several times; Fifty years later, the National Games finally turned the corner. I want to ask, eight thousand miles away, the clouds are rolling and the clouds are smooth, the motherland, have you ever frosted your temples? I want to ask, it's still easy to fly around. What's on your mind? I meditated in the misty rain of South Lake, I wandered in the residual photos of Xiangjiang River, I searched in the broken walls of Taierzhuang, and I inquired under the neon lights of Nanjing. In my opinion, the motherland, the millions of lions crossing the Yangtze River, is your spewing anger, and the mushroom cloud over Jiuquan Satellite Base is your proud figure. The music of "Dongfanghong" is the best interpretation of the national spirit, but isn't the red handprint of the farmers in Xiaogang village a touch of blood from Tan Zhuangfei on the street of Yanshi? The pursuit of truth, the control of history and the pursuit of ideals are the main themes of every day and night in the past 50 years.

Friend, did you hear the applause of the United Nations General Assembly to restore the people's seat in China? When you saw the Prime Minister off in Shili Long Street, did you hear the sad cry? Did you see the smiling face when the big slogan "Hello Xiaoping" was printed? Have you seen the touching face of the people's soldiers when they are guarding against death? You heard, you saw, this is the living motherland.

Or the firewood smoke everywhere in indigenous steelmaking, or the angry sword in private practice. When you look at it, you may lament the dislocation of history, but it can better reflect the difficulty of finding it.

Fifty years, in the blink of an eye Fifty years, how admirable! Respectable! You can feel it! Alas! Fifty years of hard work and courage. In the past 50 years, you have been a trumpet marching along the Yalu River, the first heavy artillery to land on the front line of Kinmen, and a pickaxe to split the hard ice on the Qinghai-Tibet line. You are a sharp sickle that cuts into the golden autumn, you are a signal launched by a launch vehicle, and you are also a safety helmet at a depth of 800 meters. This is our dear motherland! She is so sacred, solemn and inviolable, and so specific and clear.

Friends, please cherish every day! Your firm steps towards the palm of your hand, your proper comments on documents, every speech you make on the podium, your computer drawing, your greenhouse vegetable garden, the silver sweat on your forehead, and your vigorous and powerful brushwork. It is a portrayal of my dear motherland and my friends.

My friend, please cherish every dawn and don't empty every gray hair. Come on, friends, let's shed the blood of youth and cast the national building in the new century!

Prose and poetry praising the motherland ...

What is it, like a sword that cuts through the iron curtain of the years and shines brightly? What is it, like a huge priest waking a sleeping lion and yelling at the strong voice of the times? What is it, if it is a monument, to publicize the melody of marching and remember the hardships of starting a business? This is my great motherland! Friend! This is my motherland's 50th birthday!

Fifty years is a moment in the long history. But what kind of storms have stirred up in these 50 years? In the past 50 years, we have cleaned up the sludge and turbid water; In these fifty years, I am determined to change the world. In fifty years, clouds have covered my eyes several times; Fifty years later, the National Games finally turned the corner. I want to ask, eight thousand miles away, the clouds are rolling and the clouds are smooth, the motherland, have you ever frosted your temples? I want to ask, it's still easy to fly around. What's on your mind? I meditated in the misty rain of South Lake, I wandered in the residual photos of Xiangjiang River, I searched in the broken walls of Taierzhuang, and I inquired under the neon lights of Nanjing. In my opinion, the motherland, the millions of lions crossing the Yangtze River, is your spewing anger, and the mushroom cloud over Jiuquan Satellite Base is your proud figure. The music of "Dongfanghong" is the best interpretation of the national spirit, but isn't the red handprint of the farmers in Xiaogang village a touch of blood from Tan Zhuangfei on the street of Yanshi? The pursuit of truth, the control of history and the pursuit of ideals are the main themes of every day and night in the past 50 years.

Friend, did you hear the applause of the United Nations General Assembly to restore the people's seat in China? When you saw the Prime Minister off in Shili Long Street, did you hear the sad cry? Did you see the smiling face when the big slogan "Hello Xiaoping" was printed? Have you seen the touching face of the people's soldiers when they are guarding against death? You heard, you saw, this is the living motherland.

Or the firewood smoke everywhere in indigenous steelmaking, or the angry sword in private practice. When you look at it, you may lament the dislocation of history, but it can better reflect the difficulty of finding it.

Fifty years, in the blink of an eye Fifty years, how admirable! Respectable! You can feel it! Alas! Fifty years of hard work and courage. In the past 50 years, you have been a trumpet marching along the Yalu River, the first heavy artillery to land on the front line of Kinmen, and a pickaxe to split the hard ice on the Qinghai-Tibet line. You are a sharp sickle that cuts into the golden autumn, you are a signal launched by a launch vehicle, and you are also a safety helmet at a depth of 800 meters. This is our dear motherland! She is so sacred, solemn and inviolable, and so specific and clear.

Friends, please cherish every day! Your firm steps towards the palm of your hand, your proper comments on documents, every speech you make on the podium, your computer drawing, your greenhouse vegetable garden, the silver sweat on your forehead, and your vigorous and powerful brushwork. It is a portrayal of my dear motherland and my friends.