English poem–Ethereal Rain

Parched by the dry spells of existence, my being saunters in the open sky. For long, it has languished to quench its thirst.

The movement along the clouds is fluid—the various colors on the earth are shadowed by the fluffy bunches of cotton-like formations. It feels as if I am on the directionless-pole where the snow-white color is abundantly prevalent, but extremely hot.

The kindling fire of expectation has risen the temperature within, yet there is no sign of a drop that could fall on me and give the desired satisfaction.

Bliss is in reunion with my real self. I am in search of it.

With cautious steps as I move along, there appears to be something happening in the open space. It has made the atmosphere humid. I can hear some mystical sounds coming from all directions.

O yes, it is the rain. The ethereal rain that my being pines for!

It marks the sign of the presence of the real self, who owns me inside as well as outside.

In the rhythmic downpour, my being dances on the uneven floor of clouds, yet the movements are graceful.

The droplets fall on me but do not wet me. They are consumed by my being, and not a single drop escapes downwards. Every drop fills me with a blissful energy.

As I bathe in this overwhelming experience, my being merges me in my real self.

The search is over. The home is reached.

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