The song of the rain sings softly,
A slight drizzle, a pleasant break,
From the ever beating, shining sun,
Dripping from leaf to leaf, second to none
However, the sweet rain cannot always pour, always sing,
For it is sometimes replaced by torrential rage,
Provoked by whooshing gusts of winds,
Violently thrashing its bullets upon our windowpanes.
Many a times the frosty, freezing air,
Crystalizes each tiny glass bead which falls from our sky,
Influenced by the steadfast cold atmosphere,
Falling softly, piling, unbeknownst in the darkness of night.
The song of life cannot always sing softly,
Giving us pleasant and wonderful times
Stormy times will come and go,
Times of conflict may turn our speech cold,
But we will always melt once more.