repentant, the beasts at war;
the rain brushes blood away, stains and more.
with weary talons and dread of death,
they whine, abjectly in the moor.

redeemed, the peasants on land;
the rain kisses evenly, every man.
with soaked sable coats and battered sandals,
they cheer, for a new life at hand.

rejoice, the spirits who died;
the rain embraces fatherly, beggars and the passerby.
with shrunken flesh and littered pain,
they are silent, with no voice left to cry.

when it rains, it rains,
common as it is, common it remains,
like the morning breakfast and omelet cakes;
like the supper soups and strawberry shakes.
but when it rains, we sing,
we sing to the earth,
we sing to the water;
we sing to whoever listens
to our immaterial quaver.

the beasts at war,
they shall, one day, perish;
the peasants on land,
they will, somehow, demise;
the spirits who died,
they should, eventually, sublime.

only the rain would last,
and as it washes away all the goods and all the sins,
like it kisses equally every man,
like it embraces fatherly the beggars and the passerby,
Noah wouldn’t be there to save us.
we can only sing to the earth, to the water,
for the rain washes away the blood,
for the rain washes away the stains,
for when it rains, it rains.