The Rain

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  • Nature

    The Rain

    The rain, a harp of million strings,
    In different times and in different climes
    Plays a tune of different notes-
    From a light beat to a full blast:
    It's the sweetest lullaby and the worst nightmare.

    A drizzle of tiny wet particles,
    Almost a gentle mist floating by
    Is cool and caressing,
    Soft and soothing
    Like a child's touch.

    Secret word in rumbling sound passes around
    To gather together the passing clouds-
    A sudden summer shower pours
    Drenching the trees and gladdening the hearts
    In a quick freshening bath.

    The monsoon rain is the hope
    Of rivers and reservoirs-
    It rains cats and dogs in this season
    Keeping people indoors in cozy comfort
    When the year's rain harvest goes on ceaselessly.

    Cyclones and tempests are the crescendo-
    Waves rise to many meters high and torrents
    Lash with unexplained wrath and fury
    Wreaking havoc, ravaging coasts forever:
    No encores, people pray, to this awesome score.

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    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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    PP’s Poems (9)

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