When it rains, it rains

repent, the beasts at war;

the rain brushes blood away, stains and more.

with weary talons and dread of death,

they whine, abjectly in the moor.

redeemed, the peasants on land;

the rain kisses evenly, every man.

with soaked sable coats and battered sandals,

they cheer, for a new life is at hand.

rejoice, the spirits who died;

the rain embraces fatherly, beggars and the passerby.

with shrunken flesh but no more pain,

they are silent, with no grief left to cry.

when it rains, it rains,

common as it is, common it remains,

like the morning dinner and omelet cakes;

like the evening breakfast and strawberry bakes.

but when it rains, we sing,

we sing to the earth,

we sing to the water;

we sing to whoever listens

to our immaterial shiver.

the beasts at war,

they shall, one day, perish;

the peasants on land,

they will, somehow, demise;

the spirits who died,

they are, eventually, alive.

only the rain would last,

and as it washes away

all the bones

and all the rotten,

Noah wouldn’t be there to save us.

we can only sing to the earth,

to the water,

to the rain high above.

for the rain washes away the blood,

for the rain washes away the stains,

for the rain is sent to wipe the tears,

for the rain is sent to cease the pain.

for when it rains, it rains.