The days of hurry, do not leave a trace of excess traces, those who encrusted our youth day, already died in the wind, only to a trace of pain and salty memories, stay in the bottom of my heart is a difficult process of change, like the wind Beat the wind chimes, the wind chimes have to return to the song.
Early summer morning, cool air is always soaked in every cell, pushing the window, the whole world into the corner: apricot after the rain is more delicate, hold up a pale pink skirt, in the branches Dance a summer dream; willow wrapped in a layer of green leaves, in the branches to talk to each other, everything seemed so harmonious, only my mind and all this is so discordant.
Was again and again to simulate the test was tortured me, calm down to steal this rare morning. Suddenly the ear sounded "Pata" sound, like something falls on the marble in front of the balcony, lazy I indifferent glance, turned out to be folding the butterfly, it struggled hard, want to re- Fly. Oh, a little can not believe, blink, that piece of incomplete wings people heartache, it is a kind of wound ah! In the sky of the sky, only that point glowing milky white light, the wound like a beautiful arc solidified on it. I finally knew why it was struggling, a broken butterfly, a kind of incomplete beauty, and this summer intertwined into a discordant tone.
It seems to climb, and seems to want to fan wings, summer dew drops a few drops on it, I do not know that it is not tears. Its wings in trembling, very weak trembling, I seem to hear it shouting, the desire for the students, the dedication of the flight, finally, seems to fall down, but it sticks to the pig, and it finally flew away .
Life to give butterflies a kind of incomplete, it is to return to a more beautiful posture of the flight, growth is not a hard and long way to grow to give us bitter, why can not we return to tears with tears!
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