About butterflies
Knowing the legend of Zhuang Zhou's dream butterfly, I never dreamed of butterflies again.
South of the colorful clouds, butterfly spring, I no longer regard butterflies as specimens of love.
You shouldn't decorate with fairy tales and magic. In particular,
Butterfly is really a vassal who doesn't know winter.
I don't care much about moths that steal alive under birds' mouths.
Beauty of butterflies
I saw a butterfly and wanted to call it Brother Liang. At that time/moment
I regard butterflies as honey and a pair of wings as work.
Go to the grave
Love yourself with color as the track.
The intolerable beauty of this world. In his lifetime
Also failed to brew dessert.
It will shake off the human feelings attached to pollen.
Heard of thunder, heard of moaning. But it
Never talk to anything. Stand only where flowers and plants need it.
When runners, liars and sad people are squeezed under their wings.
Beautiful thoughts are flying.
As a funeral:
Or sniff a few human stamens
Or stole a few mouthfuls of God's honey. Its resistance to change is:
Don't move, hold it with your wings.
The wind of the whole world
A butterfly
The north wind blew for about three miles.
The village is safe.
The butterfly is still there.
Butterflies falling quietly in the grass
It did not move, as if it had not been disturbed by the wind.
Not afraid of birds, see through its mind.
It learns the appearance of vegetation, swaying, but flexible.
It's not the one I dreamed of.
With blue sadness, there is white joys and sorrows.
It's not a farewell in the piano, but a silent hug.
This butterfly, it will love me all my life
Especially me, when my heart is in the waves.
It opened a free direction for me.
Butterfly spot
The roses were in full bloom when you came.
You left, and the door was covered with moss.
However, this does not affect the original
So you really love me.
It turns out that I am very cute and I have been hurt by you.
I sat on the river bank just to see you.
The beauty of flying around
You are like a shadow of the past.
Pain is moss, turning into scars on your wings.
Sadness and love fall from roses. petal
Become a spot on my face
And butterfly books
The light in the dark lit up the front.
The footprints left for the night are for me.
The footprints left by twenty years
Deep feet are mud and shallow feet are tears.
Turn on the music all night.
You can't see my young beauty, embroidered on silk.
You saw my old one.
Mend burlap.
Wrinkles on the wings, wrinkles on the water.
You hear my singing.
Not as good as the singing of birds.
You flew into my world.
Like the wind, it stings a heart full of red dust.
Butterfly is my old friend.
It used to be full of spring.
I use nectar to soothe my spring worries.
In the morning dew, there is your shy face.
Honeysuckle, with pollen in May.
But I can't touch my own bones
She embraces all my possibilities and sweetens my body and mind.
When I called her, love and pain bloomed one after another.
You're not here.
Pollen is sweet and greasy, and butterflies are blurred.
Like an old friend of mine.
Has always been my neighbor.
In this life, you are like the shadow of a butterfly, flying around.
Perched on the branches of my dreams.
See how I bloom and wither.
Butterflies on paper lanterns
Running water just wants to tell the rest,
Let the moonlight complete the sound of insects,
Bird language,
And the sound of flowers. They showed up when I couldn't say it. I ended my role. A middle-aged person has or does not have butterflies.
Open it for me. Thin feathers are covered with gold powder. It knows,
Raised me, I will lose my love. The butterfly point shows the time, and it knows,
I live in a polyhedron,
I will bleed and think of beauty,
Less and less beauty is like a butterfly in April, a girl who sings hymns in spring.
He is also a freckle boy who has loved. He walked past me with a paper lantern.
The red lantern with the insect address is time.
Green Lantern is a vicissitudes of life.
Butterflies on paper lanterns,
It has been snowing for years.
mood
Butterflies are flying on the grass.
A horse bowed its head and ate grass. This horse looks as humble as grass.
A butterfly with a quiet ear of wheat landed in the grass.
A happy grasshopper,
Jump on me, the way it falls,
Much like a refugee hunted by the emperor, I felt it.
Like butterflies in the grass.
It makes no difference for a horse to bow its head and eat grass.