There’s a prickle on my neck, and a trickle down my cheek;
There’s a pitter-patter sound that’s softly growing;
There’s a softly-dimming light, not quite day and not quite night,
And the water feels so cold I think it’s snowing.
There’s a world that’s washed in grey, and the sun has gone away,
There’s a rumble, and the still air seems to quiver;
There’s a fog, a mist, a haze, Heaven’s tears obscure my gaze,
And a cool breeze blows, caresses, makes me shiver.
There’s the smell of dampened dirt, moisture clinging to my shirt,
There’s a sky of grey, a massive cloudy plain,
There’s a prickle on my neck, and a trickle down my cheek,
And I’m leaping, twirling, dancing in the rain.