Rain, making my soul thunder, With solemn darkness of insanity, It crises with composite hunger, Against passion of naked sanity.
It stands with despicable foes, Corrupted by the bosom of remorse, With each effectual drop, It makes hearts flip and flop.
Its exorbitant desires are a maze, Within each drop a hidden gaze, With it?s mortal obedient sense, It drills deep into soul?s incense.
It dresses in divine compassion, With power of obsolete fashion, It caresses sinful and stony hearts, Creating blind pieces of fine arts.
But no matter how much it stumbles, Sun always comes up and rumbles, Peculiar thing nature is, Rain seems to be within its abyss.