Drops of April showers,
Sprinkle hurriedly,
Trying to wet us all,
No matter how much we take shelter,
We are drenched unawares,
By the soft falls of mercy,
As the heavens open,
And the angels rush,
To serve the superior being,
Man himself,
Who may very well carry,
The scents of hamartia,
Thus lowering himself,
Lower than the low,
A pitiful tragedy,
As man is always tested,
For his devout loyalty,
To be rewarded or punished,
Upon his behavioural choice.