When the cloud hovers over my sky,
Witnessing its gloomy ostentation on the blue,
Reminding its promises of sopping my terrain,
My heart begins to pulsate heavily in anticipation.
I send for the cold wind, my trusted lieutenant,
To convey her the misery of my desiccated spirit,
Convince and entice her to be merciful with me,
And satisfy the requirements of my dehydrated body.
The self-respectful cloud ignores appeals of my messenger,
Compels me to coax and I begin humming prayers for
her,
“Every drop from you is a flow of invaluable
nectar,
From the pitcher of God, capable of spurring
spirit in my core”
“Come rain, my savior; drench my life or my eyes,
Do the favor or let me die dry as you please.”
Splitting apart the core of the sky, her
compassion begins to flood,
Not to stop before my body and soul become sanctified
and satisfied.
Intense.
ReplyDelete