These rains leave a pattern,
one has to learn to read,
the messages they deliver.
The sound that originates,
out of these free falling droplets,
leaves a rhythm,
a song to sing.
These rains craft these ripples,
and these bubbles.
While falling down, in my imagination,
they carve dreams.
These droplets make a dull window pane glitter.
They bring alive, life.
|Above. A man pulling his cart midst a mild shower.|