Like the first snowflake, we descended into existence, innocent and pure,
White, weightless, and soft until the world's footsteps we'd endure.
Now life's dirty wheels fling us as muck in their churn,
Then comes spring, putting an end to our suffering's burn:
We melt, part from our tainted form, but in due course,
Once again, foul shoes will ruffle our reflection's source.
We listen to the swallow's song beneath the eaves,
And bear the world's filth as it accumulates and conceives,
But summer arrives, all swallows take their flight,
While our arid riverbed yearns for even stagnant blight.
We barely exist, mere echoes of what we once were,
Rising into the mist, leaving nothing for the viewer.
Autumn arrives with gloomy clouds so bleak,
And weary steam descends to the earth, so meek.
Then winter returns, freezing our form so stark,
From delicate, pure snowflakes, we've become ice in the dark.
