Rain, as if the distressed sky
has impatiently carved compassion with its fingers on the back of the bowed earth.
No proclamation, no cheer
just to bring to the neglected land a silent solace.
Rain showers its affection, even on those bushes that grow without identity in the lap of rocky cliffs.
It waters the withered leaves,
which even the living creatures
do not consider worthy of shelter.
Every drop of it as if the palm of some unknown goddess, who, without asking, without choosing, gives equal rights to all.
Rain comes,
sometimes accompanied by raucous winds,
sometimes silently, hidden in gray clouds,
and sometimes just like that
as if forgiveness has quietly begun to flow from some corner of the heart
It does not ask
whether the tree will bear fruit or not,
whether the lotus has bloomed in the lake or not, or whether there are worms in the soil or not
Rain is not a religion that is distributed on the condition of fruition
It is God who first gives water to those
whom no one asks
Like God reaches even where
no prayers are offered,
no lamps are lit,
where there is no hope that anyone is listening
Rain a compassion, a silent justice,
an acceptance that life is not just the right of the able, but also of the weak
