Sometimes they flow as river
But unable to hold in hands
Sometimes cold as ice able to hold
But not for a long-time
Sometimes like fog able to see, feel
But unable to touch
Sometimes like snow flake able to touch
But runs away along the wind
They might change; may be harden for a while
Or maybe cold or may be warm
Nonetheless they are pure
Because I have seen the water in them
So, I believe they are descendants of water
Every time I miss the pureness
I search them:
Sometimes in tear drops
Sometimes in rain drops
Sometimes in dew drops
Cause they are the cry of nature