还有网友把这篇作文翻译成了英文： 我: My Mother They handed me a card with a topic on it. Said it was for some online video. I was the only one in our crew who'd finished high school, so they figured l'd know how to talk. The card said: "My Mother." Damn. I didn't expect that. Been more than thirty years since she passed. Buried up by the village edge under a hump of earth no one notices anymore. I see her as clear as day. Worn hands, steady eyes, back always bent, but never bowed. She was a small woman with the strength of an ox and the heart of ten. Woke before the sun, worked past dark. No rest. Not once.The clothes she wore were thin, washed to rags, patched for a thousand times. I never heard her complain. She had a lot of work to do and no time for words. She didn't fight, didn't fuss. If there was something good in the house, a fresh egg or a bit of meat, she gave it away before she took a bite, and rarely saying things like,"They need it more." What stuck with me the most? Mealtimes.Whole family sat down to eat. She no C dir U Stayed at the stove, ladling bowls, checking the fire. When we finished, she'd look in the pot. If there was food left, she ate a little. If not, she said she wasn't hungry.She was always "not hungry." We weren't rich. No one in the village was. But we had each other, and that meant something back then. Still does, if you ask me. My mother, I think she was richer than many in what mattered. She made dumplings once a year for the New Year. Man, those dumplings.Thin dough, barely enough filling, but you'd think it was gold the way we waited for them. New Year nearly broke her. Scrubbing the house, hauling water, chopping, kneading, washing. Her back was shot by the end of it.But she'd still be smiling, watching us kids set off fireworks. That smile, that was something real. Not the kind you paste on. Come autumn, we'd harvest grain. Took all day.Then at night we'd stand around while they handed out the year's rations. Took hours. Cold as fuck. She didn't have much to wear, just thin cloth, threadbare. She'd shake from the cold, teeth chattering, but she didn't go inside until it was done. Then she'd wrap herself in a thin quilt and wait for dawn. And when the sun came, she was back up, stoking the fire, fixing breakfast for a dozen mouths, lifting that giant iron pot like it was made of paper. I still don't know how she did it. She wasn't a big woman. But she carried more than most men ever could. She did that, yes, quietly, without help. She died young. Just past fifty. Worked herself into the ground. Her grave is small, unmarked, grass grows over it every year, green, then yellow, then green again. I visit. I always do Stand there. Say a few words. I've spent my life in the city. Worked hard jobs.Cement, rebar, scaffolding, jobs that kill you slow. Hands like leather, shoulders full of knots . But when I'm close to quitting, I remember her. I remember how she lifted that pot. I remember how she kept going when she could barely stand. That's where I get my strength. From her. She didn't leave me money. Didn't leave me property. She left me something better. That's worth more than gold. Now I'm a father. A grandfather, even. But I haven't said "Mom" in over three decades. Feels strange to think about it. One day, when I've got nothing left in me, when the rebar is too heavy and the stairs are too steep, I'll head back to that village, lie down next to her. Maybe then, if I call her name, she'll hear me.
还有网友把这篇作文翻译成了英文： 我: My Mother They handed me a card with a topic on it. Said it was for some online video. I was the only one in our crew who'd finished high school, so they figured l'd know how to talk. The card said: "My Mother." Damn. I didn't expect that. Been more than thirty years since she passed. Buried up by the village edge under a hump of earth no one notices anymore. I see her as clear as day. Worn hands, steady eyes, back always bent, but never bowed. She was a small woman with the strength of an ox and the heart of ten. Woke before the sun, worked past dark. No rest. Not once.The clothes she wore were thin, washed to rags, patched for a thousand times. I never heard her complain. She had a lot of work to do and no time for words. She didn't fight, didn't fuss. If there was something good in the house, a fresh egg or a bit of meat, she gave it away before she took a bite, and rarely saying things like,"They need it more." What stuck with me the most? Mealtimes.Whole family sat down to eat. She no C dir U Stayed at the stove, ladling bowls, checking the fire. When we finished, she'd look in the pot. If there was food left, she ate a little. If not, she said she wasn't hungry.She was always "not hungry." We weren't rich. No one in the village was. But we had each other, and that meant something back then. Still does, if you ask me. My mother, I think she was richer than many in what mattered. She made dumplings once a year for the New Year. Man, those dumplings.Thin dough, barely enough filling, but you'd think it was gold the way we waited for them. New Year nearly broke her. Scrubbing the house, hauling water, chopping, kneading, washing. Her back was shot by the end of it.But she'd still be smiling, watching us kids set off fireworks. That smile, that was something real. Not the kind you paste on. Come autumn, we'd harvest grain. Took all day.Then at night we'd stand around while they handed out the year's rations. Took hours. Cold as fuck. She didn't have much to wear, just thin cloth, threadbare. She'd shake from the cold, teeth chattering, but she didn't go inside until it was done. Then she'd wrap herself in a thin quilt and wait for dawn. And when the sun came, she was back up, stoking the fire, fixing breakfast for a dozen mouths, lifting that giant iron pot like it was made of paper. I still don't know how she did it. She wasn't a big woman. But she carried more than most men ever could. She did that, yes, quietly, without help. She died young. Just past fifty. Worked herself into the ground. Her grave is small, unmarked, grass grows over it every year, green, then yellow, then green again. I visit. I always do Stand there. Say a few words. I've spent my life in the city. Worked hard jobs.Cement, rebar, scaffolding, jobs that kill you slow. Hands like leather, shoulders full of knots . But when I'm close to quitting, I remember her. I remember how she lifted that pot. I remember how she kept going when she could barely stand. That's where I get my strength. From her. She didn't leave me money. Didn't leave me property. She left me something better. That's worth more than gold. Now I'm a father. A grandfather, even. But I haven't said "Mom" in over three decades. Feels strange to think about it. One day, when I've got nothing left in me, when the rebar is too heavy and the stairs are too steep, I'll head back to that village, lie down next to her. Maybe then, if I call her name, she'll hear me.
所以很多华男希望有个新“娘”。
因为没有新老娘们不求回报贯穿他们一生的付出，他们真活不了啊。