Butterflies don’t write books, neither do lilies or violets. Which doesn’t mean they don’t know, in their own way, what they are. That they don’t know they are alive—that they don’t feel, that action upon which all consciousness sits, lightly or heavily. Humility is the prize of the leaf-world. Vainglory is the bane of us, the humans.
fiquei lelé fazendo a intertextualidade disso aqui com First Time do Hozier. "Blooming forth its every colour in the moments it has left
To share the space with simple living things
Infinitely suffering
But fighting off like all creation
The absence of itself"
