Floating in the crevices of the stone.
Urged by the season,
It germinates, takes root and blooms.
It is attached to the tenderness of the morning light,
The morning light cannot shine on it forever,
It likes the sunset at dusk,
Sunset is coming.
Ants like it,
Dig a hole and build a nest in front of it;
Butterfly likes her,
Take off right in front of it;
If I like her,
Can I stay permanently?
There is prosperity in silence,
This is the arrival of the soul;
There is fragrance without flowers,
This is the infinite power of fantasy!
Without anyone's care,
I can also grow very well;
Without anyone's pity,
I can still smell.
When no one treats me as a treasure,
I am that ordinary grass;
If you are lucky enough to be favored and appreciated,
I won't be as humble as being accidentally stepped on.
But who am I,
I don't know.
I only remember people calling me a name,
Name: grass!