What is rain?

The sorrow filled cries of the heavens so high,

loathing our imperfections in a nurturing address.

Or tears of pleasantries,

glorifying the human existence.

Is she the sinner?

The cause of parchedness and labourer of death.

Crusted grounds and barren lands,

with decayed homes and weathered hands.

The slow silencing many men.

Is she the sinner?

With open flood gates

and the strength of many melted snows.

She harbours no hesitation,

when washing away great lands and hapless souls.

She has been cursed upon.

She has been prayed upon.

She is seasoned and she is strength.

She is a somber day,

but a means for a reclusive hide away.

She is saviour,

and she is saint.

She is liquid to our life,

The route to self-suffice.



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