Be a Clod Drown Muddy
Till I wake from shadowy space.Blossom–tree or damp muddy should I choose？Oh，the stone wander at my bottom of brain.If I creep unto blossom，petals're fragrant until I dip gently.Maybe I droop to brilliant petal or recline on verdant leaves.I'll hug stamen then rapture in pollen.As I hug stem be full of prickles，scarlet bloom like a dreamy red wine，from my marble skin，to nourish their buds.I may fall down as a red feather with breeze.Stares on bottom，tumble into being full of weeping and sobing，darkest and darkest.Till I repose on brown，I can gaze，chant alone，I can peep new root's growing.I can stare it into stem，until it crosses dim mist to be same of that flowers.I can sweat to raise，whisper with myself，adore the void sky，long to cling，trail.Flowers are breathtaking yet they don't be immortal，either.Petals can drown let me，but they still gain the day they wither.Stamen can drip pollen but they'll also wane.Stems I can hug but they'll droop.Flowers are no way to draw nigh to lustre throughout lifetime.So whether be clod to radiate，to sweat，to be like common still，is better than to cling noble？ Just two stone——“Clustering by things.”or“Follow the crowed”.
