Ask for a short article about maternal love, about 600 words.

Is there a beautiful language that can express maternal love? I don't think so. Is there a magic ruler to measure maternal love? I don't think so. Motherly love has been praised for millions of times and years, but it can never stop, because it never stops.

I read a newspaper that a massive mudslide destroyed four villages in meigu county, Sichuan Province last June, and instantly swallowed up more than 150 lives. A young mother, although her thigh was crushed by a rock, stood in a waist-deep mudslide for more than four hours with only a few big babies in her hands. She persisted until the early hours of the morning, and when the rescuers came, the baby was unscathed!

Tears ran down my cheeks when I read this report. In the misty eyes, there seems to be a sculpture standing in front of us, surrounded by sacred light, that is our mother! It is the maternal light of Chinese mothers that surrounds her!

I once read an article in Reader magazine: In the "7.3 1" air crash in Nanjing, almost all the passengers on the plane were killed, but a baby girl named Dany miraculously survived. It turned out that at the moment of the plane crash, Dany's mother Gong Hongmei held the child tightly in her arms and blocked the rocky foreign bodies and flames with her body. Gong Hongmei exchanged her own death for the life of Little Dany. The mother held her daughter tightly, and the rescuers made great efforts to save little Dany.

A few years ago, when I was a primary school student, I read this article, but I will never forget the shock it caused in my heart! With tears in my eyes, I thought about an age-inappropriate question: what is maternal love? It seems that from this moment on, I found the answer.

One day, my brother copied me a poem entitled "A bowl of rice with oil and salt": The day before yesterday/I came home from school/there was a bowl of rice with oil and salt in the pot. There wasn't a bowl of rice with oil and salt in the pot yesterday/when I came home from school. /Today/I came home from school/fried a bowl of rice with oil and salt/put it in front of my mother's grave.

Glancing at this little poem, I am still in a state of ignorance. When I read this little poem carefully for the second time, my tears came down. For such a mother who has to prepare a bowl of oil and salt rice for her children in the last days of her life, and for such a mother who tries her best to give her children warmth and love in poverty and bitterness. Through the biting wind and rain, I seem to see that there is a poor and great mother like Qian Qian in thousands of poor villages in Qian Qian, Qian Qian!

Like many classmates, I grew up under the care of my mother. Maybe it's because I have too much, and I can't appreciate the preciousness of maternal love. Until my mother left me to work in a distant place, until I left my hometown to study in a vocational school, leaving me away from my parents for a long time. During that time, whenever I saw my roommate's boyfriend happily getting together with his visiting mother, I would quietly hide aside.

Maternal love is the greatest in the world.