The world's mistake

I am the world's mistake.
The blossoms that wither in spring,
the gray skies in midsummer,
the new green shoots in autumn,
the flourishing treetops in winter.
I am not reasonable, I am unusual.
The world loves sunny skies,
but I love the howling wind and storm in the day and night.
I am an unknown grass born between the cracks of the stone road,
chest up, justified to live.
Perhaps, I should not appear in this world.
I am a total mistake.
The world is small,
too small to accommodate different winds.
I just want to live in my own house and drink a cup of hot tea in a cluttered and noisy frame,
not to follow others into the arms of the world.
I don't want to jump into the arms of the world with others and beg for mercy.
I will be at the end of the summer,
seriously writing for it is not a short life.
I will look for the smell of wind in the time that has passed.
Seeking the wind,
waiting for the wind.
While most people are catching the tail end of the year,
I am looking for the wind in the rain.
The fresh wind blows into my soul, and the rainstorm washes my heart again.
Then make the best of the mistake.