i.
Rain,
hastened knocks on windows that implore a history to be guarded,
where each drop is extracted
and cold-pressed from the chambers of eternity’s heart.
ii.
Rain:
the dark seams of coal where the buried forest screams its secrets,
and the key, slowly turning, unlocks the mouth of a thunder —
so, shout, the inconsolables of the world, because rain broadcasts all complaints.
iii.
Rain,
without a pause, falls upon the tender lines that ring the fingers, and
hangs upon the drooping necks of willows,
trying to exact thresholds into an image.
iv.
Rain
gives life and grieves it too
(you see, rain was never meant to bear the assault of reason).
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