The Goose and the Goose's Egg

It was a sunny day, and the sun made the green trees, the grass, and the colorful little wildflowers and dense shade of the surrounding area resound, the outlines of the branches of the trees and the outlines of the houses clear and crisp and hard.

The shady green boulevard that led to the dreamy and deep shade of the forest used to make my heart flutter. Every sunny summer day, I would walk through there to see the goose, a white goose, a chubby, cute guy. Fluffy and silly.

But this summer was different, and I hadn't been to see it in a long time.

That day, while I was taking a nap, this goose, unfortunately, left this world. Before she died, she left an egg behind, a white egg lying in the freshly rained grass. This was one of the eggs it had laid! It left a life behind before it died, and I wondered how things would have been if it had been a human being. I didn't shed any tears, but I felt unusually sad inside. It was so cute, and while it was still alive, it lived quickly. It drank water and ate rice, it was self-sufficient and happy. Was it lonely at that time? I think so. His eyes were still closed, and there was something in them that we call sadness, which reminded me of my little black dog, who was very small and stubborn. He was bouncing around all day, so happy. Later, it died. I still can't forget the look in its eyes when it died, just like a ghost, lingering. I couldn't help it, I couldn't help it.

But there was still this goose egg here. This cute little life is hidden in this thin eggshell.

It's a pity that this egg won't become a baby goose.

--It will probably be eaten.

I wonder, if this egg becomes a baby goose, will he be as silly as the other baby geese to find his mother? Maybe it wouldn't get much love, even though it needs it.

What is it that dominates life? How many stories are played out under this pale sky? I look at this goose egg and hold it in my hand, with a little residual warmth. This richly textured egg is very light, and the dew on the haystack where it stayed shines with a spiritual glow in the sunlight after the rain, like a tiny pearl. This tiny nest would once have had a wish, hidden in the mind of a goose on a starry night when a shooting star slid down.

An unreal scene flashed in front of me: "A dreamy bridge at that time, connected to life and death. There was hidden the true meaning of life and love and hate. Only a key was missing, a key to endless happiness."

How many past events drifted before my eyes and turned up a thousand waves in my heart, where the waves were stirred up by tears? I set up a simple grave for this goose, may it rest in peace.

The goose and the goose egg

It was a sunny day, the sunlight made the green trees, grass, and the surrounding colorful small wildflowers and dense forest shade all resounding, the branches of the trees and the outline of the house's silhouette of clear and clear and hard.

The shady green boulevard that led to the dreamy and deep shade of the forest used to make my heart flutter. Every sunny summer day, I would walk through there to see the goose, a white goose, a chubby, cute guy. Fluffy and silly.

But this summer was different, and I hadn't been to see it in a long time.

That day, while I was taking a nap, this goose, unfortunately, left this world. Before she died, she left an egg behind, a white egg lying in the freshly rained grass. This was one of the eggs it had laid! It left a life behind before it died, and I wondered how things would have been if it had been a human being. I didn't shed any tears, but I felt unusually sad inside. It was so cute, and while it was still alive, it lived quickly. It drank water and ate rice, it was self-sufficient and happy. Was it lonely at that time? I think so. His eyes were still closed, and there was something in them that we call sadness, which reminded me of my little black dog, who was very small and stubborn. He was bouncing around all day, so happy. Later, it died. I still can't forget the look in its eyes when it died, just like a ghost, lingering. I couldn't help it, I couldn't help it.

But there was still this goose egg here. This cute little life is hidden in this thin eggshell.

It's a pity that this egg won't become a baby goose.

--It will probably be eaten.

I wonder, if this egg becomes a baby goose, will he be as silly as the other baby geese to find his mother? Maybe it wouldn't get much love, even though it needs it.

What is it that dominates life? How many stories are played out under this pale sky? I look at this goose egg and hold it in my hand, with a little residual warmth. This richly textured egg is very light, and the dew on the haystack where it stayed shines with a spiritual glow in the sunlight after the rain, like a tiny pearl. This tiny nest would once have had a wish, hidden in the mind of a goose on a starry night when a shooting star slid down.

An unreal scene flashed in front of me: "A dreamy bridge at that time, connected to life and death. There was hidden the true meaning of life and love and hate. Only a key was missing, a key to endless happiness."

How many past events drifted before my eyes and turned up a thousand waves in my heart, where the waves were stirred up by tears? I set up a simple grave for this goose, may it rest in peace