In summer I saw it
flying in the sky,
jovial enough in vain vaunt.
Inquired about its pride,
I was answered:
I AM PROUD OF MY FRIENDS.
The sun gave it the light
creating a chance to mix with
friends like the wind
that assisted it to reach
the pinnacle of bliss.

In rain I found it
bemired to be trampled on
by my cumbersome feet.
In the school of grief
sickly enough to let me know
PRIDE GOES BEFORE A FALL;
that all occurred to it
for being a friend to rain.

I laughed at it.
I laughed at it in surprise,
but realized the next moment
that it was suggested to me
to look into me.
I did ruminate over the past;
my life produced the butter
and I found with pain
the maxim was true:
IT WAS 'I,' NOT MY FRIENDS,
RESPONSIBLE FOR MY CONDITION
WRETCHED ENOUGH NOW.

I am the reflection of it:
a dust particle of agony
and full of experiences of life,
a lost soul among thousands.
Nothing to worry, circular
seasons will recur.
I ought to make my time again,
for I am a particle of dust,
a particle of dust only.