Saturated fields of brown. Wilted flowers. Burnt roses.
The sky, filled with thick grey clouds of smoke.
The ground, vibrates with tremendous thunder.
A single raindrop falls from the ever-giving sky of blues and greys and reds and yellows,
Once full of silver sunsets and now only clouds.
The drop falls to the ground. Bursts into a million pieces.
Glimmering water on singed grass.
Another drop falls. More slowly this second time.
Taking its time to sink into the forgotten soil,
Who once grew great fruits and tall bright trees of green.
More droplets descend from the dark foggy skies,
Caressing the ground and grabbing the Earth with hope.
Sweet tunes of nature.
Songs of upcoming peace from the fire.
Air, once the smell of abandoned ashes,
Now the smell of mist-filled beauties. And sweet green.
The rain falls and falls. Gives and gives.
Bursting raindrops, thundering clouds, flashes of pink lightening.
And the grasses begin to grow.
Tall oak trees sprout from the rich soil.
Vines flow through the air.
Bending, curling, dancing in the breeze. Touches of grace.
The sun shines through, revealing
Fields of green. Yellow daises. Red roses.
The last remaining raindrop falls.
The flower, at the edge of the field, falls open, blooming,
Showing off its new silk coat of white,
Streaked with electric blue.
