The mantra of the rainfall on the frosted window pane
Echoes against the walls of my insufficient brain.
It drips the beat incessantly and asks the ancient rhyme:
If dust we were and dust we be until the end of time,
Then what's the use of all the fuss that torments humankind?

Where to look but nature then to find the answer true,
For there's the purpose and the plan that alters me and you.
The mighty oak astride the hill that shades the withered rose
Seeks not to ask the reason why that brings the killing snows.
It simply waits 'til Spring abides, then bows its head and knows.