You rode the summer plains with heart in a couplet,
And found a wintry room with nothing but a dying hearth;
You craved for the memory of a hurtling rivulet,
And all you are left with are clogs of unmoving tired earth
The funniest thing ever is, when people forget this phrase -“When you're pointing your finger at someone, you've got three pointing back at yourself.” and keep grumbling about others.