The wind passed, I smelled my own body odor, it is a grass smell, is the soil, rotting leaves and dew mixed fermentation and baked by the sun to form the taste. Bitter with a hint of sweet, earthy mixed with the fragrance of leaves.

I am a small grass, a weed that can survive as long as there is a pinch of soil and a trace of dew, the most humble and cheapest creature in the world.

When I first appeared on the ground, I longed to grow into a big tree. I knew that only a big tree could touch the sky and see the landscape from afar, and that birds such as birds of prey, eagles and even phoenixes would nest and land on it. At the same time, according to Zhuangzi, if it is a useful tree, it can become a pillar or be carved into beautiful objects, and if it is "useful" because of its fruit, it will also be carefully cultivated and richly nourished. Even if it is useless, it will be "useless" and live forever.

Weeds are not so lucky. People only care about the trees and flowers, no one cares about the weeds, they trample on it without knowing how important it is, and never show it any pity, let alone give it a little care. Only butterflies and dragonflies occasionally come to greet it, and only hares and crickets treat it as a friend. Under the scorching sun, it cannot find a bit of shade, and in the rainstorm, it cannot get a piece of shade. When the autumn wind comes, it begins to wither, and what awaits it is either a scythe or a wildfire. It survives tenaciously and humbly, silently and without desire, but when the wind comes, people ask it to be as strong as the trees and rocks, otherwise it is "the wind blowing two sides down" speculation and wavering, condemned and ridiculed. The flowers are the laugh of beauty. The people of the world are not laughing uncontrollably at the beauty of the people who are not in their element as the willow will tremble in the wind. The leaves in the breeze are soft and tender, and the swaying in the wind is the cry of the hero's anger.

The wind passed, I smelled my own body odor, it is a grass smell, is the soil, rotting leaves and dew mixed fermentation and baked by the sun to form the taste. Bitter with a hint of sweet, earthy mixed with the fragrance of leaves.

I am a small grass, a weed that can survive as long as there is a pinch of soil and a trace of dew, the most humble and cheapest creature in the world.

When I first appeared on the ground, I longed to grow into a big tree. I knew that only a big tree could touch the sky and see the landscape from afar, and that birds such as birds of prey, eagles and even phoenixes would nest and land on it. At the same time, according to Zhuangzi, if it is a useful tree, it can become a pillar or be carved into beautiful objects, and if it is "useful" because of its fruit, it will also be carefully cultivated and richly nourished. Even if it is useless, it will be "useless" and live forever.

Weeds are not so lucky. People only care about the trees and flowers, no one cares about the weeds, they trample on it without knowing how important it is, and never show it any pity, let alone give it a little care. Only butterflies and dragonflies occasionally come to greet it, and only hares and crickets treat it as a friend. Under the scorching sun, it cannot find a bit of shade, and in the rainstorm, it cannot get a piece of shade. When the autumn wind comes, it begins to wither, and what awaits it is either a scythe or a wildfire. It survives tenaciously and humbly, silently and without desire, but when the wind comes, people ask it to be as strong as the trees and rocks, otherwise it is "the wind blowing two sides down" speculation and wavering, condemned and ridiculed. The flowers are the laugh of beauty. The people of the world are not laughing uncontrollably at the beauty of the people who are not in their element as the willow will tremble in the wind. The leaves in the breeze are soft and tender, and the swaying in the wind is the cry of the hero's anger.