The rain lashes out in the late twilight.
The moon is held high, with white streaks scattered across the sky.
Billows of wind, shaking the lean, tall willows
Drops of water scatter across my window.
I hear a nightingale singing in its rich, clear voice.
And with a sudden instinct, I dash to get my colored oils.
My brushstrokes conjure a graceful bird soaring.
Much to the contrast of the harsh, hard pouring
This denotes hope—the will of the passerine.
Whose spirits are not damned, it keeps going with its head held high.
The charcoal grey clouds linger high upon the sky.
Stars glimmer with pale moonlight.
Rain is quite a mysterious phenomenon.
But I’d rather not tread carefully.
As the beauty of the stormy nights
Take my thoughts to amazing heights!