Sometimes the rain falls
as if its penning poetry
to the rhythm of its own music;
a sonic tune of the liquid tapestry.

Cleft from a sky immersed
in the scene of a tragedy.
It's torn,
the pitter-patter;
a solemn dance
for all humanity.

An ancient jig this fluid frolic
never tiring of its endless cycle
vesting and revisiting this terra firma
like a lover emasculating the earth
of its desert state,
or adding to its oceans
in a bid to be free.

But you’re here again, I’ve noticed
for even through windows
your music plays a clamorous
and a rather brazen beat.

Take my hand, why don’t you?

Come.

Dance with me.