I sow seeds and eventually harvest.
I protect it from pests and robbers.
Diligently never allow it to wither.
Feeding from the water of deeds.
How proud I am enjoying its abundance.
Storms dim its purity.
A drought withers the crop.
I then neglect its existence.
Leaving to wander to dry and putrid soil.
But after the drought you should see.
How pure as snow again it seems.
And again enjoy the comfort of its mist.