Autumn Rain

Did you hear the sound of raindrops gently tapping on the wooden pieces of the roof, dancing by the windowpanes, kissing the tip of the grass, burying the fallen petals, washing away the stars of the nocturnal sky and purging the blue heaven of its beautiful sun?

Yes, I heard the sound of raindrops while I lie on my bed, waiting for Selene to kiss me goodnight. I waited all night, and heard the sound all night. In the middle of the night, there was was no sight; rather I heard my own steady heartbeat and the raindrops. I could not tell how much time passed by before I gave up waiting for my sweet Selene, for in the stillness of the night Time is no longer time. Rather, I ended up listening to the raindrops. The sound of a rain-drop - how beautiful! - one drop hit the wooden roof, and the sound was carried through my slightly opened window by the gentle breeze, and so softly dispersed into my ears, before it etched itself into my memory and liquidated into silence, only to resume its existence in form of another drop from the heavens, the sound dispersed again, and again, an again...[Nietzschean eternal occurence.] All of night I heard the music of many drops - a solo sonata, a quartet, a symphonic poem; sometimes an aria, a recitative; other times a nocturne, an intermezzo, a rhapsody...I envisioned the death of the star: the explosion of a super nova, radiating infinite droplets of colours across the spectrum, dispersing across the universe, only to collapse back ever so deeply and densely back into the black hole of my memory; or the growth of a tree, from a single seed of crystalized raindrop it buried in my memory, and how Time (now Time is actually time!) nourished the seed, and a tree of raindrops widely spread in my memory. How I love the beautiful sound of rainfall, as the Being of sound opens up to me, and I gathered it into my memory, calling it "raindrop". I can say "raindrop", but can you understand that I mean the Being of each raindrop?

I heard the sound of raindrops, and how it washed away my memory of summer. I realized that Summer has died, and the raindrops were a Requiem for summer. (Summer now has to wait for Spring to give the revival kiss.) I have purged my summer passions away; they drained away in a spiral, like rain water down a funnel...

Autume is here.