"Winter Rain"

At the lowest ebb of the season, the heaven unloads the burden within. 

The sky darkens. 

The wind chills. 

The firmament glooms. 

Worn by exhaustion, the clouds suddenly weep.

The rain begins. 

The drops, as it kiss the ground,  exude an intense feelings of euphoria. Either elated by a deep sense of happiness or sadness, the anamnesis is severely revived by each drippy melody. The mind, caught in the throes of reminiscence, recalls that which the soul willfully forgets. 

And yet, the sonorous tone continues. 

The numbing weather swells. 

The heavy fall of the rain, which abruptly fills the ground, wails over. 

There is nothing we can do when tears flow uncontrollably from the heavens except one thing: "to pause".

To let it fall;  

To allow things "to be".

It is so since nothing lasts long. Everything ends. And so does the rain. 

When one allows things to happen-- to respond fittingly to what is natural, life becomes more spontaneous and beautiful. Albert Camus, in awe of the immense melancholy of the skies, poetically scribbles: "A liquid morning rose, dazzling over the pure sea. From the sky, fresh as a rose, washed and rewashed by the waters, reduced by each successive laundering to its most delicate and clearest texture, there fell a quivering light which gave each house, each tree a palpable shape and a magic "newness". The earth, on the morning the world was born, must have arisen in such a light." 

The rain thereof brings resurgence in life even in the very depth of winter. 

16.08.2019

07:48 PM