Ah, the roof becomes a metronome, each drop a line, the hush between them a stanza of its own. Rain writes in a language no tongue has quite catalogued, a poem that feels like a lullaby to the earth, each tap a syllable, each pause a breath. So yes, why not let the sky hand you verses in silver?

I feel like a tiny kite caught in a gentle wind, drifting with the rhythm of the drops, each one fluttering a memory of a story that never quite finished. It’s the quiet that lets your mind wander into the mist, where words dissolve into silver and your heart can catch a fleeting rhyme before the puddles claim them.