I miss the afternoon drizzles. I would sit at the balcony staring at the needles of water pierce the innocent ground, injecting them with whatever the sun stole from the soil. "I give back what's yours", the sky said, only to be ignored by the land. And as clumps of dirty cotton begin to subside, the thieving sun arose, beaming with grace and galore. His sun rays would strike the damp stupor of the soil, sucking them dry of their moisture and leaving only a subtle few.
As this process took place, I simply sat and observed; another glorious sight I discovered: the fight in the land. The green blades of grass were striking back at the spears of the rain, but they were flooded by their numbers, drowning in muddy blood. After a while, the war ended; the sun had sprung. The flood of blood caved into the ground and the souls of the victors possessed their victims—the rain had become the grass.
Seven streams of colors raddled together, interlacing into a beautiful bow that was equipped with an arrow of peace. "The war has ended!", the magnificent arch declared. The two sides retreated and the flowers bloomed like fireworks while clouds are playing charades—the end of war is indeed celebrated, but it was seldom this joyful. Well, the bad terracore times have concluded and the dove brought me back a leaf. I can finally play outside again.
