Each drop of rain
is wasted in the wind,
as whistles of pain
remain with no blink.
To whom should we thank
for things that come and go?
Who should we hate
for nothing to own?
Only life we have,
nothing that could last.
Only in a moment
all of this is past.
Rain happens as life:
suddenly and strong,
all we have it takes.
All we are is gone.
with the wind.
Foarte tare poezia asta. Absolut geniala!