Today the rain is coming down relentlessly. I am listening to a hollow roar, the only way I can describe the sound continuous rainfall makes, watching it sheet past the window into the drenched green landscape.
Human beings are the only beings who do not live their life properly. Yesterday, being Friday, I had to get up and go to work. In dark; due to the low cloud cover and pouring rain. Meanwhile cats, bantams and fish were all still sleeping because it was dark and raining. I was the only one who had to leave my comfortable nest because of human constructs of time and working week. If left to my own devices I would not have left my place all day.
So today, under that same construct , being Saturday, I’m not moving out of the house while this rain is pouring down. I am indulging in the comfort and luxury of not doing anything in particular.
The Voice Of The Rain - Poem by Walt Whitman
And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:
I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain, Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea, Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd, altogether changed, and yet the same, I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe, And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn; And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin, and make pure and beautify it; (For song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfilment, wandering, Reck'd or unreck'd, duly with love returns.)