Little drops of life slowly trickle
down the surface of a barren landscape.
From whence do they issue forth?
Who can say?
I know not why they march on,
nor why they refuse to cease their journey.
Is it of great importance?
Who can say?
Straight backed, blank faced and stoic,
they seem possessed by a surety of purpose.
Do I envy them?
Who can say?
The little drops join a great torrent
and flow forward with a cry of gleeful rage.
Should I mourn them?
Who can say?
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