From the mountain shack, I watched the rain fall,
its rhythm shifting at every instant.
A torrential veil descends,
heavy and unyielding drops,
flooding the ground without stopping.
A perpetual and mighty downpour,
an intense rain of purest water.
The droplets fell to the right and left,
rushing like unrestrained tears,
joining the river, following its course.
Across streams and winding rivers, it ran,
hanging horizontally like threads from the sky.
On the tin roof, the dripping echoed,
a rhythmic, perceptible pattern,
pulsing like a beating heart.
From the rooftop, it flowed like a rushing cascade,
falling onto flowers, relentless in its assault.
It reached the ground where it shattered and gleamed,
scattered diamonds flickered brilliantly on the ground,
then merged into puddles, racing toward the river.
The drops created their unique charm,
a complex, precise, and harmonious rhythm.
The tinkling of streams, the marvelous flow,
a concert without monotony heard all day,
the symphony of the rain followed its course.
Once the sky opened, the drops fell in cadence
until the sky emptied, and suddenly they stopped.
Everything changed—the sun emerged in brilliance,
the shimmering water evaporated; it rained all day.
I looked out the window and saw what the rain had done.