Sunny late autumn
Suddenly let me close my hurried footsteps in the afternoon.
I almost stepped on a butterfly by the roadside.
For a moment, I thought it was resting its wings.
When I squatted down to look carefully,
Only then did I know that the butterfly was dead.
This butterfly must have just died.
The two beards on its head are still swaying gently with the breeze.
Its slender legs seem to retain the power to hold the ground.
The sun shines in the eyes of its sunglasses.
Colored wings reflect colored light.
The dead butterfly is beautiful.
Its beauty lies in
It is more peaceful to die than to live.
The death of a butterfly reminds me of many beautiful words.
But no beautiful words can describe its death.
I'm not out of pity, but subconsciously.
Pinch the butterfly carefully with your fingers.
Put it on the forbidden artificial lawn.
We'll think about it later.
This may be the best burial for butterflies.