Illusion of life

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.