I look from my glassy room,
the rain falling on the moor.
Drops fritter on the glass,
So much more than this mind can amass.
Lady woe, she cries at the rain,
Drowning in the rain ,her tears of pain.
Years have passed , but not much has been gained,
Of all the attempts to hold on-only so much has stayed.
Miss zephyretta lets open her hair,
To her it is the western air.
Youth has brought to her all that is fair,
The rain at her beauty does stare.
The reaper lurks around an old trunk,
Looking for Lady Age with arms shrunk.
One slice of the reaper- no pain.
She will go back to the home of the rain.
The children play in much frolic,
Drenching , innocent – without harsh logic.
The rain comes and goes, but joy to them is static.
Even the rain bows to their deathless magic.
I look upon from my glassy room,
On what was a rough summer’s moor.
Some voices behind the door,
For the summer, against the rain implore.
The voices laugh at every trickle,
‘Nothing as the rain is quite as fickle.
Delusion is the rain’s only sickle.
Hiding the sun for a day does not reduce the summer a mickle.’
Mistress sun showers summer’s bane.
But now all is covered by Lady Rain.
And the mad men laugh at the rain,
Yet the rain falls , drowning their pain.
Covering their pain, the mad men laugh at the rain,
Remembering a time when they were sane.
All the weight of the rain,Can cover but a heart’s pain.
* There is something incredibly therapeutic about the rain. It is the same for everyone , whether they are in pain and joy. Maybe, pain and joy are but illusions, and the only truth there is , is the beauty of the rain. *