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The Epic Ballad of Hongtong’s Great Locust Tree—Celebrating the Establishment of Hongtong’s Great Locust Tree Ancestral Root‑Seeking and Ancestor Worship Park as a National 5A‑Level Tourist Attraction
The Great Locust Tree is waiting for you.
(1) The great tree of faith—how far your roots reach, how long your tears endure. Yellow earth, blue sky; the stork’s timeless nest is the locust‑tree homeland that haunts the hearts of all Chinese sons and daughters. Six hundred years—its roots stretch on and on, weaving into the very blood and spirit of our nation. Reverence, reverence—faith that never sinks, ever steadfast. One generation, two generations, three generations, running parallel beneath sun and moon, their paths crisscrossed by wind and weather, through vicissitudes unshaken. Hunger and longing are patiently measured, each step a stride. That hemp rope, once loosed from the wrists of our forebears, now binds itself to the hearts of descendants; even the knife and axe that once cleaved at our toes have long since been twisted into the key that opens the door to our old home. Branch by branch, leaf by leaf, the soul of our hometown gathers, then drifts away—only by returning to the village can we find rhyme with warmth, and only with a pair of eyes can we see the direction of the ancient dragon‑root. Great locust tree, you stand like a river, winding and entwined.
Awarding Hongtong’s Great Locust Tree the AAAAA Scenic Area designation.
It turns out that a foreign land is, in fact, one’s hometown. In Hongtong, even in late autumn, the great locust tree still wears its splendid attire; the descendants of the Ancestral Tree bring joyful news and have been honored with a five‑A rating, adding glory to Shanxi. The culture of ancestral roots, a thousand years old, flows like an unbroken lineage—returning to the cradle of Yan and Huang. Who could fail to be moved to tears? Within the region and beyond its borders, there is no divide. — Mao Yubin
Song of Relocation Jiao Lachang [Jiu Jing] Beneath the ancient locust tree, life in my native land thrives; My forebears toiled and studied, finding joy through long years. But suddenly I hear the imperial edict on resettlement— Leaving home and hearth, parting from my cherished village. At the foot of the venerable locust, a gathering place once stood, The starting point stretching northward to the far south. As the ninth lunar month draws near, the chill grows keen; Alas, my garments are thin, my body exposed to the cold. The bailiff’s voice rings out, urgent and relentless, And the endless road stretches on, each day like a year. A hundred miles in a single day—how hard it is to go! Eating in the wind, sleeping under the dew, I endure hunger and frost. After more than ten days, I reach Shunde Prefecture, Where I am handed over to the county magistracy, bound by strict control. For now, I make do in a thatched hut, with a brick‑built hearth; When the northwest wind rises, the cooking smoke chills in the cold. The edict decrees that those of the same surname must dwell in different villages, And so fathers and brothers are torn asunder, their grief all the greater. Left alone, with no support, I am bullied by the local folk; With food and clothing scarce, each day is a struggle to survive. Fields lie fallow, yet I toil with sweat upon my brow; Sowing in spring, reaping in summer, I hope for a bountiful harvest. Thankfully, for three years no tax on grain is levied, and only then…
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