The proud Miss Butterfly

The butterfly could no longer wave its wings in the air, so it docked on such a cold stone wall, lying on its stomach in mourning, fluttering its wings, trembling its tentacles, its body swinging back and forth, weak and helpless, weak and even unable to resist the blowing of a breeze, such a beautiful and enchanting life, like an angel breaking its wings, was about to be annihilated silently, ordinary and short as if it had never come into this world.

However, the butterfly itself did not complain, it was trying its best to maintain the last decency, it was not like a flower, life was over, it withered and withered, so that others could no longer see its national color, and the butterfly, so stubborn, no matter what, must maintain the same bright and beautiful as always, proudly maintain the last elegance, do not let others despise it, do not let others forget its beauty, let others' memories forever freeze in its beautiful moments.

Such a small life that leaves beauty to others makes me moved. Will it have tears in its eyes? I asked myself, but, my intuition told me, that there would be no tears in its eyes, that its mighty heart was an indestructible fortress of pride. There were tears in my eyes, because of the touch of admiration and the mourning of pity.

The Sanskrit sound of prayer is soft: May God cherish the weak life in the world, and may God appease those who are as proud as butterflies in the world.