All the colors in life are like a dead pale butterfly, falling into the endless darkness of death, falling into my hands and turning into eternal meditation.
I picked up a yellow leaf, gently wrapped the dead butterfly and buried it in a hundred flowers. ...
In the stagnant world, a dead butterfly, a withered leaf and a bunch of brilliant flowers are all the same.
2. You flew out from the depths of a small forest with a gentle and shy smile on your lips. You throw yourself into my warm arms, just like a tired stream pouring into a deep pool. I put the flowers of the four seasons in your black hair, but you looked up and asked me, can a song that is out of tune still be called a song?
Oh, butterfly, are you an angel sent by God to call me? I smiled when I saw you, but my heart was crying. I lied to God, and I was afraid that God would find out.
Oh, butterfly, can I make an appointment with you? I tell you my secret, and you tell me yours. In the name of my life and your wings, we will never tell each other's secrets to anyone.
Extended data:
A Dead Butterfly is a beautiful philosophical prose poem by Chu Lingyi, a famous poet. Through the perspective of a dead butterfly, the poet realized that life and death are homologous. Chu Lingyi, a famous poet and singer, is famous for his poems "The Ladder of the Soul", "The Death Note" and the song "Archangel". Chu Lingyi's prose poems have a strong philosophical charm, but they are beautiful.
Poetry content
I found a dead butterfly among the petals all over the floor. I gently picked it up, put it in my hand and stared at it for a long time.
As peaceful as a philosophy book that has been closed for many years. In my hands, it tells the ultimate destination and the whole meaning of short life with its death.
I am used to letting the world in my eyes freeze into a black-and-white painting, and I just stood there, black and white, between life and death, peeping at the gaunt figure running around.
All the colors in life are like a dead pale butterfly, falling into the endless darkness of death, falling into my hands and turning into eternal meditation.
I picked up a yellow leaf, gently wrapped the dead butterfly and buried it in a hundred flowers. ...
In the stagnant world, a dead butterfly, a withered leaf and a bunch of brilliant flowers are all the same.