The clean air stained by fogs and cloud;
Can't even see the face who calls me loud.
Life that's so pure and bright in sunshine;
Is dark and unfriendly, and never fine.
A stream contaminated in rainy days;
It becomes clear and neat in other ways.
Mistakes we blunder in our own path;
Though time cleanse like a body bath.
In memories, thoughts it stays as a scar;
Hurting, paining more than those in war.
Living seems a waste and welcomes death;
Dying isn't liberation we feel, and wait.
Being happy, still dying isn't the satisfaction;
So it is natural to walk even with objections.