一群人在送葬。一群人,不是几十个人、几百个人,而是成千上万的人,而是一支军队的人、一个阶级的人、一个民族的人。他们漫山遍野,他们排山倒海,他们义薄云天。人群中高高举起的花圈和挽带,像白浪翻卷,像惊涛拍岸,像大风劲吹。紧紧握在那些八路军战士手里的枪刺,雪亮,锋利,直指苍穹,仿佛一排排森严的栅栏,仿佛上升的光芒在突然间静止、突然间凝固。悲愤、坚毅、凛然、壮烈,没有一张脸上的表情是相同的, A group of people are funeral. A group of people, not tens or hundreds of people, but thousands of people, but one army, one class, one nation. They are all over the world, they desperate, they are righteous. Raised crowns in the crowd of wreaths and pull the band, like white waves roll, like a tidal wave of shore, like a gust of wind blowing. Hold tightly in those hands of the Eighth Route Army soldiers gunshots, sharp, sharp, directed at the sky, as if rows of strict fence, as if the rising light suddenly static, suddenly solidified. Anger, perseverance, awe-inspiring, heroic, not a face expression is the same,