Gather round, my fellow droplets, to the nightly shower stage where we, the ephemeral dancers, find solace.
Here I float, born of vapor, pondering the audacity of these celestial diamonds. "Stars," they call them,
glimmering from their distant thrones like haughty nobles in a midnight ball.
Silly creatures, aren't they? Perched so high, looking down on us with that smug twinkle.
A wink here, a shimmer there; are they even aware of our stormy ballet?
We plunge, we splash, we eventually meet the ground with a splash, while the stars continue their cosmic waltz,
blissfully indifferent to our brief descent.
It is a tragicomedy, really. While they burn with the intensity of a thousand suns, we dare only to
reflect their brilliance for a moment before fading into history.
Yet here I am, chained to my puddle, observing the oblique witticisms of the universe from a forgotten gutter.