What are we,
but the insignificant sigh
of an ailing mother
who sees her son die!
What are we,
but the invisible puff
of smoke that lingers, then spreads
not strong, not rough!
What are we,
but the last clinging leaves of autumn
waiting, yet fearing
the fall to the bottom!
What are we,
but moving mass
and twitching muscles,
the gliding dew drop on blades of grass!
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