Even with those slender arms, I had to drag up the withered petals, only to find that the petals were so heavy.
Even if I am just a delicate butterfly, I will use those immature wings to end my life in that colorful world, only to find that I have been sleeping for a hundred years.
Even if it's just the singing of cicadas at night, it still expresses sympathy for those who died young.
I know that the beauty of the sunset is just the afterglow of the flame, and I also know that the vast sea of mulberry fields is just a kind of reincarnation destiny.
But the petals, the butterflies, the singing of the cicadas, and the sunset are all wonderful to us. Who can imagine their helplessness?