Sings the rain such multitudes inundating with joys my mind, arid and thirsty from so much reality.
Sings the rain her stories of cloud and sea.
Sings her river stream towards her destiny of vast immensity.
Sings her past, remote and cold, of immortal crown on sacred mountain.
Sings the rain her lives and pleasures in terrestrial creatures, in children and dogs, eagle and flower.
Sings, yes, and in her song she drenches my soul in her celestial flight, in her pass through the world and her lives in the sea.
She saturates my being with all those things the rain was and lived, living without being born, existing without dying, always in passing in her multiple forms, being all and no thing until it falls as rain and song in my soul of a child of the torrential tropics.
The rain falls and sings me the song of all life, her song.
The rain falls and sings me the song of all her lives, my song.
The rain falls and I fall with her. I am the raindrop that listens to the songs of the lives I was, that I am and that I will always be.
My whole life falls, drop of rain in the torrent that brings with it a piece of sky to the thirsty desert so much pregnant with life.
I fall life after life, drop of heaven, singing overflowing life in rain, storm, and dew between the heaven and the sea.
