A lone dewdrop from heaven falling down and down, no idea where it shall land-
Would it be the beak of a bird, quenching its overnight thirst, diminishing itself for salvation?
Would it be on a red rose, waiting to be plucked by a lover for his love, wiped by the lovely hands?
Would it be the blade of a grass, perching atop, paving way to the eternal slide down to non-existence?
Would it be the stinky gutters, where a war rages: purity against the filth, a lone drop against the gust?
Would it be on the web of a spider, when an endless wait begins, incineration by the cruel sun?