A Piece of Dust
A lazy louse can see no light;
Rampant parts are done at night.
Coursing through a river flow,
Seeking what you do not know.
A piece of dust, or that of glass,
Seems to you that it is crass.
Around a corner, up a stream,
Sounding out, you boil like steam.
A race to finish all but last,
You haven’t got a furnished past.