The Blind

The sun hung its head low through the tall poplars, which had lost their color, leaving only their silhouettes visible. From the north, black clouds gathered, heralding rain. The sky rumbled restlessly, and bolts of lightning repeatedly left bright scars against the dark clouds. In the west, the sky wept over the earth—swiftly, evenly, incessantly—the streaks of rain standing out clearly against the still-visible disc of the sun. The rain tapped rhythmically against the gray, thirsty earth. The wind murmured softly; under its force, all vegetation bent and seemed to dance to the rhythm of the ever-intensifying storm. The whisper of the wind, the delicate beat tapped out by large, fat drops falling on the hard ground, and the sounds of an angry sky created magnificent music, impossible to recreate, composed by Mother Nature… And I stood in the very center of this miracle, calm, quiet, humble, yearning to die!