Birth of a flood - a poet's admire of rain

The sky is almost dark, save for those last golden tinges that would fade in no time. As palm trees mark the oblivion, a muddy reflection forms the ground. The last few days were mostly rainy. So profound is our love for rain. And why wouldn't we?

Unlike most other seasons, rain is so tender. A drop of patience which is about to reach its final destiny. Every time I look at raindrops, they remind me of a struggle. A journey that begins with summer in an aura of dry and burning heat. And in no time, the drop loses its sources. The long-held identity of its mother. With the loss of identity, an awakening awaits. The pleasure of reaching out and bonding. As our drop moves up and up the end of the sky, it realises the futility of pride and the necessity to bond. This comes with age. Not until it is near Earth does it agree to meet with other wanderers of the new world. And finally, all our drops reach the cold atmosphere. The coldness makes life dreary and lonely. As the youthfulness dies out, bonding starts.

Or days to come, these drops rejoice in their friendship, travelling close to one another in the frozen land. They collide again and again. Each time the group grows. The form clouds now. And the craving to reach their mother begins. Clouds are heavy, dark. At this age, the drops are no longer the identity they had. Detached from their mother, and in a group of alikes, there is no means to distinguish. The wait ends in the regain of their form, the rain.

The lowlands and the rain are each other's prize. One's thirst and others' journey, both coming to a fertile end. And when it grows darker, their reunion is evident from the splatter. A soft sound of drizzle without any visible form of struggle. Darkness is a gift. It opens our eyes to what we can not see. It takes all the power from you, yet makes you feel so strong about yourself.

But today, the lowlands are not that blissful. The rain has been heavy over the days. Much of the Earth is now under water. And that's the death of the poet. A journey so romantic breeds a daughter so violent. For days now, her wrath has brought misery to men. Those flooded farms and crops now lay drowned, all a sight so against the long journey of the raindrop. And thus is the night trying to hide the sight from me. Once again, darkness finds joy. Sometimes ignorance is a boon. But how can I ignore this? What went wrong?

I can see that small drop evaporating in the strong summer noon. It's a boastful journey up and that nice friendship beyond the sky. Oh, that long wait to reach the earth, that long thirst for the rain. That fragrance when they meet. Yet today, such misery. A creation so undesired, but that's fate. You can not blame the lowland nor the downpour for the flood. You are just a witness to the unjust fate.

Oh nature,
Your pleasant devotee.