The December wind, once a mighty gale,
Is feeble, warm, lifeless and pale
Carefree still, it flows ruminating,
It is happy after all,
Just being.

The icy mountain, what a blow it felt,
Painfully slow did the snow cap melt,
In between states of matter, still contemplating,
Is is happy still,
Just being.

The earth, a theatre in dilapidation,
Torn apart by borders, ideas of a nation,
Still it moves, silently reflecting,
It is happy after all,
Just being.

The sky a kaleidoscope of universes afar,
Today is a haze, without a single star,
A silent screen, it gets itself thinking,
It is happy still,
Just being.

The last song bird, it calls for a mate,
It will never hear back, a sorry fate
Still it finds solace in the singing,
It is happy after all,
Just being.

The wind, the ice, the earth, the sky,
Just as a sparrow and a butterfly,
Without a worry, they exist,
They’re so good
At just being.

While I, a human,
riding on destruction,
Am only good,
At just being sorry.